Gallian Chronicles
by teyr25
Summary: Follow Squad 7's ancestors through a different age, one bereft of electronics, tanks and machine guns, but not of prejudice and brutality - the Gallian War of Independence one hundred years before EWII. Collaboration with John234.
1. Prologue

_Late November, 1835 _

_Upon the Gallian-Imperial Border_

_ The thunder of rifle fire drifted over the field, carried along to the staccato roll of a tribal drumbeat. An uncaring sun beat mercilessly down on the lines of men, awkwardly reloading with paper cartridges and ramrods. Acrid clouds of choking blue smoke lazily wafted from gleaming rifle muzzles. The sharp odor of the smoke mingled with the smell of fear... and death. The cries and moans of mortally wounded men echoed across the battle lines._

_ Over one of the tattered lines of combat fluttered the blood-red flag of the Eastern European Imperial Alliance. The brown-clad men fighting under the crimson standard steadily withdrew towards the reassuring bulk of Ghirlandaio Fortress. The soldiers gave an exceptional account of themselves in their retreat, falling back in good order and spelling the end for many an overzealous enemy. All the same, a retreat it unquestionably was. _

_ As the Imperial soldiers gave their ground, blue-uniformed troops under the cobalt banner of the Principality of Gallia hotly charged after them in pursuit. Gallian artillery pieces fired and roared, dueling with their Imperial counterparts for supremacy, even as partisans fired from concealed positions within the nearby treeline, adding to the weight of metal raining down upon the retreating Imperials. As the Imperials withdrew into their fortress, the advance of Gallia's forces ground to a halt as the fortification's defenders launched a fierce barrage of defensive fire from their positions. The Gallians, however, had no reason to worry. Ghirlandaio's occupants had nowhere to run and their supplies were running out._

_ By the next month, the citadel had fallen into Gallian hands. Meanwhile, in places such as Bruhl and the forests of Kloden, similar cries of victory rang as their Imperial garrisons surrendered. The grand Eastern European Imperial Alliance was left utterly staggered and shocked by its unexpected defeat at the hands of a tiny, almost trivial nation. This unforeseen defeat was the final straw. Throughout the Empire's regions, an emotion that had been generated and aggravated by countless conflicts with the neighboring Atlantic Federation finally broke loose: Sheer, unrelenting panic._

_ For Gallia, this disturbance would prove to be a short but crucial respite, the only thing keeping a massive, retaliatory Imperial expeditionary force from lunging upon the upstart Gallians like a pack of slavering warhounds._

_ All the same, the hounds would arrive soon enough._

_

* * *

  
_

_**Author Note:** Hello, John and Teyr here. Your typical Valkyria Chronicles fiction is focused on original characters caught up in the Gallian militia, set in a similar time frame to the game or anime. Not necessarily a bad thing - the setting of VC is quite addicting to write in. But, why not try the past? It's more difficult, but just as rewarding. This story explores the Gallian War of Independence in 1835, reminiscent of the American Civil War.  
_


	2. The Politics of War

_Montigny - January 12, 1836_

Lord Edward Townshend of the Atlantic Federation was not a happy man. Ever since his appointment to the post of a Federation delegate, a never-ending series of political quandaries had ruined his dreams of leisure and power.

"Valkyr-" He stopped himself from uttering the taboo phrase. "-cursed Gallians just keep on making difficulties", he muttered into his beard as he surveyed the map of Europa on the opposite wall of his office.

No one had honestly imagined the tiny Principality to have even a Porcavian's chance of gaining its independence when it had taken up arms against its Imperial masters the previous winter. Although a small band of Gallian partisans had seized Randgriz, a significantly-sized Imperial garrison had been present nearby, so most of the Federation's delegates and politicos had expected the rebellion to be put down in short order.

What no one in either the Federation or the Empire had realized at the time was that the majority of the "Imperial" garrison troops present within the tiny nation were Gallian-born conscripts recently back from having seen brutal action on the Federation front. It didn't take long for these bitter veterans to rediscover their . . . sense of nationalism and promptly defect over to the side of the Gallian independence movement.

The entire Federation Parliament now had their bowels in an uproar in regards to the newly-formed fledgling nation. The new and still fragile armistice with the Empire could be shattered if the Federation officially recognized Gallia's sovereignty or turned it into one of their protectorates. On the other hand, allowing the Empire free access back into Gallia was not a particularly appealing idea, especially considering the region's natural resources. To be sure, it was a highly delicate situation. Townshend was startled out of his reverie when his manservant stepped through the door.

"Lord Towns'nd, the bloomin' council wants ter clock ya".

"What?" After nearly a year with the man, Townshend could not understand his accent for the life of him.

"The council want'a _see_ ya"

"Oh". He gave the servant a suspicious glare. If the man could speak like any _proper_ Appledorian, why on Earth wouldn't he? He brought his mind back to the issue at hand. "Thank you Percy." He watched as the manservant slunk back out the door. He stood up, feeling the weight of his 46 years as his back cracked, then started for the door.

"Where to, sah?" the driver asked as he climbed into his private carriage.

"Independence Hall." Townshend's intended destination, a magnificent stone building and the centerpiece of Montigny, was a triumphant testimony to the economic and political might of the Federation. The structure's name, however, was pure irony, considering the issue that Parliament was convening here to discuss. Townshend dismounted from the carriage and hurried up the marble steps.

The inside... was as expected. Although the bright colors and shining fixtures lent to aesthetics every bit as grand and imposing as the exterior, the gaggle of delegates, observers, press, and the chairman plying his gavel in the center of the meeting hall detracted from the effect.

"Order, order!" the chairman shouted as he continued to abuse his gavel. "All delegates present will come to attention!"

The bickering delegates quickly fell into line.

After a moment's pause, the chairman then continued as he sourly glanced at the papers piled upon his desk. "We are solely gathered here today to discuss the current political state of the Principality of Gallia. We are NOT gathered here to speculate upon a possibility of absorbing Gallia into our political sphere, nor upon the possibility of enacting military action against the Empire!"

"With all due respect, _Sir_, does not the Gallian issue include both of those subjects?" a nearby delegate asked with clear restraint.

"Indeed it does, gentlemen, but that is a subject for another day, and even if it were on our agenda, I do not recall the matter necessitating Parliament's members to chatter and bicker as if they were a fractious mob of housewives on Market Day!" This final exclamation finally silenced the chamber. "Thank you. Now, onto the subject of Galli-"

"We must treat with Gallia as an equal, and support it in its valiant stand against the Empire!" one delegate burst out.

"Are you stone mad?! We must neutralize any negativ-"

It was now apparent that the chairman had lost control of the situation altogether. "Gentlemen, _please_-" he began in quiet frustration.

"Do you want another war with the Empire?" another delegate began. "The current situation is far too tense-"

"Reactionary!" a heckler across the room shouted.

"Radical!" another shot back. The meeting soon dissolved into a disordered back-and-forth lobbing of crude insults. The chairman, sitting amidst the storm of words, looked as if he were about to cry.

Townshend, calmly sitting at his own desk, was not surprised. He had seen this situation altogether too many times before in regards to any piece of legislation, no matter how trivial. The meeting would now continue on for a few days, and, with a great deal of noise, accomplish absolutely nothing. Resting his chin on his palms, he considered the possibility, at least in his opinion, of voicing a much better option. Even if the idea didn't pass, he could amuse himself with listening to their petty responses.

"Gentlemen," he began at a lull in the shouting, "It is clear that we must do nothing in this situation!" Mildly amused at the astounded expressions of his fellow delegates, he continued. "If we support the Gallians, the Empire may view this as an overt declaration of war. On the other hand, if we support the Empire's claim, then we will be promoting our own downfall. Therefore, we must wait and see if the Gallians will be able to maintain their independence on their own."

There was a moment of silence throughout the hall. Then, fresh shouting broke out so as to put the previous round of bickering to shame. Townshend sighed noncommittally. Though not exactly enjoying the most heartfelt of support, he felt confident that his proposal would win out, if for no other reason that it would benefit from the fact that what passed for Federation politics generally proved incapable of deciding anything on its own, resulting in a lack of action. Not that he was actually suggesting anything new. He was simply setting himself up nicely for eventually claiming credit for the "brilliant" idea of allowing the Gallians to choose their own fate.

He then excused himself and discreetly left the meeting hall, knowing that he could very well disappear for hours without missing anything important. A far more pressing business now required his attention: The backroom deals and bargaining that created the _real_ policies within the Federation. Perhaps he could arrange for some surreptitious aid to Gallia; an extra bargaining chip with a nascent government couldn't hurt. Still. . .

"Things in Gallia are looking to be very interesting in the near future," he muttered. "I really do wonder if its people have what it takes to break free of the Empire. . ."

* * *

**Author Note:** Many thanks to Markal for the beta-reading.


	3. Basic Training

**OneirosTheWriter:** Thanks for the review. The canon characters are not actually born yet, as we are attempting to fit this story into the canon as much as possible. Thus, feel free to point out any mistakes you note with our research.

**DC20:** Once again, the characters are not born yet, but that does not mean that there will be no references to them. ;) As for the accents, we'll continue with them for the time being, but if they become too much to handle, please let us know. Thanks again for your review.

* * *

_Fort Merit - March 4, 1836_

Staff Sergeant Edel Wagner inspected the lines of freshly-arrived recruits, fifty in all. The boys had been rushed to Fort Merit, barely a week after the official conscription notices had been issued. They were to be trained by the hastily-promoted commissioned and noncommissioned officers that formed the core of the newly-minted Gallian Army. As they roasted in the dry summer heat, Wagner grimly noted the lack of proper uniforms for the new unit. The thin, almost slight Staff Sergeant wore a rather Spartan uniform himself, a threadbare brown tunic common to all the Gallian officers who had once served in His Majesty the Emperor's service.

"Welcome to the Gallian Army, gentlemen," Wagner said in his light, almost boyish voice. "I am Staff Sergeant Edel Wagner."

Pronouncing _Wagner_ with the slightest tinge of an Imperial accent, the Sergeant respectfully gestured to the men standing beside him. "And these men are Lieutenant Giuseppe Landzaat, and Sergeants Charles Wolffe and James Tillock. We will be the ones responsible for training you into proper soldiers here at Fort Merit."

Wagner glanced at the gathered recruits, his grey eyes holding something closer to personal rather than professional concern. "If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask. But rest assured that making yourself a nuisance will only hurt you. Upon the conclusion of this training, we will also be leading you into battle."

There was a moment's pause. No hands were raised. Wagner sighed and nodded to the lieutenant. "Very well men, you may be dismissed for today. Your training begins tomorrow at oh-six hundred hours. Your Sergeants will be the ones personally responsible for your training. However, please come and see me if you have any concerns," Lieutenant Landzaat remarked as he swung up onto his mount.

The men dispersed slowly to their barracks, leaving Wagner with Charles Wolffe. As Edel started to walk from the parade ground, the lanky Sergeant caught up to him and clapped a thin hand onto his shoulder. "Hey, Edel! I haven't seen you since the Bruhl campaign! How've you been?"

"Well enough thank you."

"Ah, what's with the formal speech again? They teach you to talk like that in doctor's school?"

"_Medical _school, Wolffe," corrected Edel. "Professionals must be understood. Do you happen to know what a 'professional' is?"

"A stuffed shirt," Wolffe bantered cheerfully.

Edel half-smiled before simply grunting. For as long as he had known him, the other Sergeant seemed physically incapable of taking anything seriously. He was definitely not cut out for quartermaster duty or any job that would require keeping records or writing reports, as the written contents would soon fall victim to one of his infamous pranks. One elaborate lark in particular, which had involved a clutch of dead snakes and a can of ragnite, had forever doomed him to remain as a noncommissioned officer. Despite this, Wolffe was a damned fine sharpshooter, his Sergeant's chevrons a holdover from his Imperial service rather than a hastily-granted promotion as it had been for many others.

"Well," Edel said finally, "We should head back to barracks. I am confident that teaching those recruits to shoot properly will test even your level of patience."

Wolffe recoiled in mock horror. "What? Go back without even seeing a single woman? Are you insane?"

"Preferable to the clap. Good night, _Sergeant_," Edel shot back, executing a neat about-face and leaving behind a bemused squadmate.

"One of these days, that guy's going to have to learn to relax..."

The next morning, Edel woke a full hour before reveille, as was his habit, and started across the chilly parade ground towards headquarters. As he entered, he was mildly surprised to find someone already there, a plain looking man clad in Imperial brown. The scent of fresh coffee wafting from the mug he held in one hand was all but choked out by the sharp, pungent odor of ragnite powder. Edel noted the large, musket-like weapon slung over one shoulder as the man idly drummed his fingers on a table, as well as the two chevrons messily stitched onto the man's brown jacket sleeves.

"Corporal, are you familiar with the rules regarding weapons in the fort?"

The man turned slowly, taking his measure. "No, Sergeant, I was just posted here. John Cheslock, formerly of the XXVI Grenadier Corps, now 147th Infantry. The rest of my Corps was spread out to plain old ground-pounder units too."

"Hmm. Which company?"

"Company F"

"That means you're in my company. Come along. Where was the XXVI assigned?" Edel grabbed a cup of coffee for himself and waved the man from the tent.

"We were at Ghirlandaio after the desertion. Hell of a tough nut to crack. Most of us got hit just sitting in a damned trench. The rain soaked our powder and disabled most of our heavy guns."

"At least you're a veteran. Most of the puppies here need help just to lace up their boots. I was with the XIX at Bruhl. We had to clean out the Imperials house to house. Nasty place."

"_Mein Gott_... Heard the casualty rates there were… staggering."

"Yes..." Edel drifted off. "Oh, speaking of which." The staff sergeant extended a hand. "I'm Edel Wagner. Pleased to meet you. Ah, and this is Charles Wolffe," he added as the other Sergeant ducked out of a nearby latrine.

"Hi, Edel. Where'd you pick up the grenadier?" Wolffe asked, eyes flicking to the awkward-looking grenade launcher slung across Cheslock's back.

"John Cheslock, XXVI Grenadiers." Cheslock said, extending a hand. "Hmm. You're a sharpshooter, aren't you?"

Wolffe's nearly black eyes widened in sudden curiosity. "How'd you tell?"

"Well, you cut off the fingers on the glove of your strong hand. I'm guessing for a more precise trigger squeeze, and you don't look like you carry enough ammunition to be line infantry." Grinning at the incredulous expressions his reply garnered, the corporal explained. "Guns are a big hobby."

The three noncommissioned officers looked up as drummers began to beat the time to call the men into line. "Very well. Having an ordnance specialist ought to make our job simpler. You'll be teaching the recruits along with us starting from today, Corporal," Edel said, making a quick executive decision.

"Right. I'll probably blast the bugger that rubs me the wrong way, though." Cheslock grinned at the two Sergeant's nonplussed expressions, adding, "Though it would depend heavily on the person in question being worth the effort or not."

The parade ground rang with the laughs of two men, as another strode behind shaking his head.

* * *

**Author Note:** Thanks to Markal and Chiemiangel for the beta-reading


	4. Darcsen's Justice

_Rusgren Pass - March 30, 1836_

"Alright boys, we'll resupply here and push on with our patrol. We got a lot of ground to cover before nightfall."

Corporal Joseph Lee glanced up as the captain at the head of his cavalry column spoke. The former horse artilleryman was a rather thickly built man who felt dizzy whenever he rode.

"How ya doin' Joe?" Lee looked up as his brother Chester rode up. Unlike himself, Chester was thin and rather light, well suited to the cavalry.

"Well enough thanks." Another matter in which the two siblings differed was their speech. Lee had been conscripted into the ranks of the Imperial army and had spent a few years having the mainstream Gallian accent rub off on him. Chester on the other hand, had been too young for Imperial service and had consequently retained his backwoods drawl.

"Ya reckon we'll run into some Imps once we get clear of this here pass?"

"I don't know. I'd rather not though."

"Aw, shucks. You're funnin' me. A heap o' the boys are rarin' for a good ruckus."

"That's because most of them have never seen a real one." Before his brother could argue further, the patrol rode into the supply depot. The depot was located in the center of a mountain pass, far from any prying Imperial eyes.

As the column halted with harnesses jingling, a major came out of a nearby tent.

"Welcome to Outstation 12, gentlemen. I am Major Harold Weber, its commanding officer."

"Captain Nathaniel Danielson, sir. 44th Cavalry out on patrol. We require supplies and provisions before we press on," the captain said with a salute.

"Very well. Kasu! Zeyd! See to it that these men have what they need."

Two young men with distinctive dark indigo hair and eyes ran up and saluted. Lee felt his skin crawl as he saw them. Darcsens. Their kind had been kept in labor jobs since the Darcsen Calamity almost two thousand years ago. They had also been stripped of their rights to family names or property. The Barious Desert to the east stood as a grim testament to the necessity of such measures.

As the men began to haul supply crates out of tents and open them, other members of the patrol made their distaste more obvious.

"Hey, dark-hair! Be careful handling my rations. Wouldn't want any of your tunnel filth on my food."

"That smell was you? I thought we had accidently ridden into a garbage dump." The Darcsens stiffened, but otherwise did not react.

"Here are the supplies you require sir." a nearby Darcsen said tonelessly, holding out a bag and a small box. Lee accepted them, wordlessly stuffing them into his pack.

"Where'd you steal that uniform from, boy?" another trooper asked as a nearby groom began to lay out feed for the horses.

The Darcsen drew himself up. "I am a member of the Darcsen Auxiliary Corps, and this uniform was issued to me as a part of my enlistment."

"Is that so?" The trooper looked around at his squadmates before viciously kicking the man in the face. "Don't think that you can be anywhere near equal to _real_ Gallians, boy."

The Darcsen sat up clutching the side of his face as blood seeped through his hair. "I would thank you to accord me the respect you would any other man fighting for Gallia's freedom," he said.

"Oh, will ya look at his high-falutin talk." Chester jeered.

"I will not stand for that, Private!" Major Weber suddenly shouted, his face livid as if it were a personal insult.

"And I _respectfully_ reckon commanding this place has turned you into a Darcsen-lover, sir," Chester drawled. "Come on boys, let's ride!"

As the patrol galloped out of the post, many trampled through the outstation's neatly stacked supply crates, scattering their contents every which way. Laughing and joking at the chaos they had caused, the column rode north.

* * *

"To be frank, I do not approve of such harsh treatment of Darcsens, Captain." Colonel Javier Franz said grimly. "I have no great use for them myself, but in this case, there is no room for personal prejudices. If we are to win this war, we must use every asset at our disposal. If that resource happens to be Darcsens, so be it."

Captain Ehren Gunther looked askance at his commanding officer. "But sir, they're _Darcsens_," he said in a tone of voice one might use with a dangerous lunatic.

"Keep the war free from your personal feelings. That goes for both the Darcsens and the enemy. If you allow your mentality to be influenced by emotion, the enemy will have that much of an easier time sending you home in a pine box."

"I'll keep it in mind, sir," Gunther said dubiously. Colonel Franz had been something like a mentor to Gunther ever since he'd been a raw recruit, but it was still hard for the captain to swallow such a radical idea. He began marshalling his thoughts to respond when their conversation was interrupted by the rapidly approaching form of an advance scout.

"Sir, beg to report, the enemy has a column of light cavalry up ahead! Looks like a scouting party, maybe four score men."

"_Scheisse_!" Gunther hadn't expected to see the enemy so soon. To make things worse, the number of men Franz and Gunther had along only amounted to about fifty.

"Have they seen you?" Franz, as always, kept his famous ironclad cool.

The scout looked offended. "Seen _us_? They could have had an artillery battery on their flank and not notice it."

"Good work." Franz pondered for a moment. "Captain Gunther, dismount a couple of platoons and hide them in the tall grass there. The horses will need to shift for themselves."

"Sir! A maneuver like that will leave you and the remainder of the men defenseless!" Gunther objected.

"That's up to you. Now move." The men moved. In a matter of minutes, Gunther was hunkered down in waist-high grass with forty other men, waiting. It wasn't long.

The enemy cavalry crested a hill, coming into sight. The scout had been right. Most of the enemies weren't veterans. They were laughing and joking with no forward scouts or markers deployed. Gunther's lips drew back in a feral grin. If the enemy wanted to send raw conscripts forward, Franz's veterans would cut them to pieces.

The column swung about as they spotted Franz's detachment and began to spread into a ragged line. There was absolutely no drill or discipline in the deploying formation. The captain almost tutted despite himself.

Franz began to pull in the enemy, his men taking a few potshots as they retreated. Gunther judged he had waited long enough.

"Give it to 'em!" he shouted as he rose up out of the grass and the front blade of his rifle settled on the back of the nearest trooper. The Koffler broke the silence with an abrupt booming crack, dropping the man out of the saddle with the first shot. His fingers worked the lever under the stock, flicking out a brass cartridge. The other men's rifles began to bark as they followed his example, knocking more unsuspecting cavalry off their mounts.

The enemy reacted much as he had expected them to. Displaying an appalling lack of fire discipline, the inexperienced cavalry troops fired panicked shots into the grass, with the sole result of emptying their antiquated single-shot carbines. As the murderous hail of fire scythed down more men, some attempted to dismount, only to be crushed by their own frantic mounts. Drawing sabers, the few remaining men rallied for one last desperate charge. Gunther and his men soon taught them the error of their ways as their lever-actions thundered. Men pitched out onto the field as horses were shredded by the blazing line of focused fire. By the time the slaughter was over, only a handful of the shattered cavalry unit managed to escape in disarray, urging their panicked mounts over a nearby hill.

"Good work, Captain," _Oberst_ Franz remarked as he rode up, a smoking rifle across his lap.

"_Danke schon_. Have to admit, these new rifles helped a lot too."

"Quite so. Any casualties?"

"No, just a couple wounded. Those old trapdoor carbines aren't much use on horseback."

"Hm. They seem to be using old Army ordnance. Well, get your men together, and find your horses. As it seems resistance will be light, we should report back to _B__rigadegeneral_ Gregor."

"_Jawohl!" _The war would not win itself of course, but if _Hauptmann_ Ehren Gunther of the Imperial Army had anything to say about it, Gallia would soon be back in Imperial hands.

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**Author Note:** *O_berst_, _Hauptmann_ and _Brigadegeneral_ are the German terms for Colonel, Captain and Brigadier General, respectively.

Once again, thanks to Markal and Chiemiangel for the beta-read.


	5. Marching Orders

**DC20:**Well, it seemed a little stupid to us as well to have cookie-cutter characters, but we'll put a section at the end explaining the rationale behind all the characters. Kudos to you if you catch all the references though. ;)

* * *

_Fort Merit - April 4, 1836_

Edel Wagner strode up the firing range, observing the recruits drilling steadily on the line. "How are they coming, Wolffe?" he called, seeing the other sergeant berating a hapless trainee.

"No! First the load, then the cap!" he shouted before turning to Wagner, yanking some cotton from his ears. "Thumb-fingered fools the lot of them," he grumbled.

"Oh, they're not that bad. I seem to recall a certain private who once tried to ram his load with a ball screw."

Wolffe grinned. "Ram his load . . . with a ball screw?" he echoed.

"What?" It took a full second for Edel to process Wolffe's comment. He scowled. If looks could kill, Wolffe would have keeled over on the spot. Since the sergeant remained alive and healthy, Edel contented himself with a poor second best. "You're terrible. You should be a second lieutenant with that sort of joke, you know that?"

Wolffe started to laugh. The privates, bewildered by the sudden outburst of laughter, stared wide-eyed at the sergeants.

"Weapons pointed DOWN RANGE!" Wolffe suddenly bellowed. Edel winced, wishing he had plugged his own ears as well.

Shaking his head to dispel the ringing in his ears, Edel left the rifle line and continued on towards the field assigned to Corporal Cheslock. Loud shouts shook the air as the privates practiced throwing unfilled grenades at a cutout window. He listened to conversation between the Corporal and a particularly ambitious private as he approached.

"So Corporal, why can't we carry grenade launchers like you?"

"It's simple. If a grenade malfunctions, it either kills you instantly or gets thrown back at you. With a grenade launcher, you're caught in absolute fear as you think of what you were never trained to deal with. You'll probably die, too." Cheslock's eyes gleamed with amusement as the private turned back to the line crestfallen.

"Are they any good?" Edel called to Cheslock.

"They have an arm to throw with, a pair of eyes, and not much else."

"That bad? Sergeant Wolffe though much the same of his boys. Still, it's only been a month."

"It takes much less than a month or a week to screw up, however. But we've only had a week or two of hands-on training, so I can't expect too much out of them. Think none of them ever pitched a baseball?"

"Probably not. Most of these are country boys, so they've probably never played a team sport."

"Mm. Point taken. The real problem with this training isn't throwing - perfect tosses aren't generally needed in a fight. It's more teaching them how to arm the grenade right, every time."

"Well, you're right. Good luck with that," Edel strode away toward Tillock's medical aid training station set up in a nearby tent.

"As you can see, this powdered ragnite can be used to disinfect wounds and speed the healing process."

"So does that mean we should just pour the packet on the wound and bandage it?"

"Erm . . . yes. Just use most of it and swallow a pinch to ward off infection."

Edel broke in abruptly. "No, you shouldn't use the whole packet. That high of a ragnite concentration could lead to blood poisoning and local chemical burns. Furthermore, swallowing ragnite will lead to explosive diarrhea and possibly an extremely painful death." The comment was made all the more hilarious by the simple fact that Edel gave the remark in a completely deadpan manner.

Tillock flushed. An unfortunate private let out a strangled titter as his fellow recruits clenched their jaws to avoid laughing.

"YOU! Go run fifty laps and return here to do your pushup allocation!" he bellowed.

"Fifty laps? That's fifty miles Sergeant. Are you trying to kill him?" Edel inquired.

"Erm..." Tillock paused. "Five laps then. I'll be watching. The rest of you, dismissed." The private ran out with an extremely relieved look on his face. The other privates shuffled out after him. They managed to get about twenty yards away before losing their last vestiges of self-control and exploding into raucous laughter.

"Apologies, sergeant. I didn't mean to embarrass you. I suppose the need to make corrections comes from my past experience as a surgeon's assistant."

"It's alright. You're the field surgeon after all. You're the one that needs to know these things," the sergeant muttered with slumped shoulders.

Slightly amused, Edel left the tent. His rare jocular mood was quickly dispelled as six bedraggled cavalrymen rode into the square.

"The Imperials are in Gallia!" one of them shouted hoarsely. Ice ran down Edel's spine. The men weren't ready. They had more training than most Imperial conscripts would have received before being thrown into the war against the Federation, but those unfortunate green recruits had died by the hundreds on that battlefield.

He ran up to the patrol. "What the hell happened?" he shouted.

"Ambushed by Imperials! Hundreds of them! Came out of nowhere!" the man choked out with a wild look in his eyes.

"Which unit were you with?"

"44th Light Cavalry. Eighty of us all dead in a few minutes!"

Edel frowned. This certainly sounded grim. "Come on, we have to go to the general with this" he said, taking one of them by the arm and dragging him toward the headquarters tent. Before he got there, General Damon stepped out.

"Who's this, sergeant?" he asked, one aristocratic eyebrow lifting slightly.

"Survivor from the 44th Cavalry sir. Reports his unit was ambushed and slau-" Edel stopped himself, "caught by a large Imperial force, sir."

"Where was this?"

"Inside Gallia!" the man burst out. "Don't you get it? The Imperials are here!"

"I am quite aware of that, Corporal," the general said coldly.

At that moment, one of the other survivors, who had seemed nearly catatonic thus far, spoke up. "I reckon I could tell ya, sir. We was on our way out of Outpost 12, a good day out. They'ns left 'emselves wide open, and they was only ten, so we reckoned we could take 'em. Then the rest of em sprang in'n outta nowheres an' went shot the hell outta us'ns, as far as from you and me to that there buildin'," the man said, pointing to the headquarters, barely ten meters from the gathered men. "We never see'd em afore we was gutted. Cap'n Danielson was the first'n to get hit, dead 'fore he hit the dirt. They's fire came frim No'th, So'th, Yest, West, jest gutted us. And I'm mighty sorry to say sir, we gone and run, jest as fast as we could." After this speech, the trooper clammed up and refused to say anything further.

"Come on, Chester, let's get you to a bed" The Corporal said, taking him to a nearby tent.

As he came back out, the general addressed him. "Putting aside your earlier insubordination, what's your report?"

"Chester's report was correct sir. Not much else to tell."

"How did you let a few hundred troops sneak up on you like that?"

"I don't know sir, but there must've been at least that many from how much fire they were putting out."

"This is serious indeed. I want all my officers in the command room in thirty minutes. Dispatch a courier to Randgriz to inform his Excellency what has happened."

Edel watched the officers gravitate towards the tent grimly

"Hell of a thing, ain't it?" Wolffe said, coming up to him.

"Yes, well, you should start packing. I don't think we'll be staying here for much longer." Edel was right. The 147th received its new marching orders within a day.

* * *

**Author's Note:** A ball screw is a corkscrew-shaped attachment for a ramrod to extract a lead ball from a muzzle-loading weapon without firing it.

Once again, thanks to Markal and Chiemiangel for the beta.


	6. Council of War

_Naggiar Plains - April 6, 1836_

"_During our scouting foray toward the Gallian encampment, we encountered a Gallian cavalry unit out on patrol. Trooper Viktor Bieber of our forward screening force reported back at approximately thirteen hundred hours to _Oberst_ Franz and I, reporting the presence of Gallian forces in the area. The enemy amounted to approximately eighty men. As this represented a force numerically superior to our scouting party, Oberst Franz ordered myself and the majority of the men to take up firing positions in a-"_

Gunther looked up from his report as another officer stepped in through the tent flap.

"Ehren, the Colonel wants to see you." Captain Dieter Furst was the other captain assigned to the II Imperial Heavy Cavalry, and a good friend of Gunther's.

"_Danke_, Dieter," Gunther said as he stood up. "Is this about the strategy meeting?"

"Presumably. Is that the action report on the battle you and the scouts fought a few days ago?" Furst asked as he spied the half-finished paper on Gunther's desk.

"_Ja_. I need to submit it to _Brigadegeneral_ Gregor before this evening, so I need to finish it when we get back. He'll probably pick it to pieces finding exactly what went wrong during the engagement and give us a lecture on the subject. The man cares so much about II Brigade's reputation that he forgets about everything else sometimes."

Furst shrugged. "Mm. Well, at least that's better than those commanders that just read the report and never give any feedback at all. It shows he cares."

"Hypothetically, anyway." Gunther couldn't help rolling his eyes slightly.

"Ah, _Hauptmann_ Gunther," Colonel Franz said as the captains approached. "Would you be so kind as to accompany me to the briefing?"

"Always glad to be of service, sir."

"See you around then, Ehren," Furst called as he walked off.

Gunther waved back, then wheeled and saluted smartly. "What's our basic plan of action, Sir?"

"Nothing at the moment, unfortunately. The General doesn't seem quite sure of what to do."

"Not sure of what to do?" Gunther stared. General Hermann was not always right, as many of his men had learned in the Eastern Campaign, but he was always sure he was.

"Well, it seems the powers that be are staying the General's normally... _straightforward_ tactics." That was putting it mildly. Gunther still remembered the siege at Movileni, where the Imperial Army had bled itself white trying to break through defensive works kilometers deep. "At any rate..." the Colonel gestured towards the briefing room. "Shall we?"

The atmosphere in the room tensed as Gunther ducked under the flap.

"Ah, Franz. So glad you could come," the General said genially as the pair came to attention and saluted.

"_Oberst_ Franz reporting for duty sir." Franz replied formally.

"_Hauptmann_ Gunther reporting for duty sir."Gunther echoed.

"At ease, at ease," the General said, waving the two officers towards a pair of unoccupied chairs in a corner. "Now that we are all assembled gentlemen, let us discuss our plan of action for putting down this insurrection. I was originally planning to drive for Vasel, establish a bridgehead, then swing around and capture Randgriz. However, I have been ordered to proceed cautiously, as his Majesty the Emperor is of the opinion that the Gallians may be able to ambush us as we advance. Such caution is not suited for this particular plan. Thus, I have gathered you here to gather suggestions on how we might proceed."

The assembled officers' eyes all swung in unison to Gregor, the next senior officer present. Gregor looked around, and seeing that no one else was about to speak, sighed and steepled his fingers as he began. "I must agree with his Majesty's opinion that the Gallians may prove troublesome along the approach to Randgriz. This is, after all, their home soil. Thus, I suggest we wheel north and recapture Fouzen, their primary industrial base. Without it, the Gallians would then be sorely pressed for arms and ammunition."

Gregor paused for a moment to rub at his temples. "We should then work our way steadily south, pacifying the settlements along the way, employing our usual..._methods_ to keep them in line. These Gallian irregulars will probably desert and head home to "protect" their families. Scattered like that, any remaining force should be easily crushed, and we can mop up the rebels remaining in their towns at our leisure."

The officers began to murmur and nod, showing their support for Gregor's plan. Gunther was nodding himself when Franz broke in. "With all due respect _Brigadegeneral_, I believe that such a plan is not an ideal way to go about subduing Gallia." Gregor lifted a thin, aristocratic eyebrow.

"Oh? Why would that be, _Oberst_ Franz?" Gregor said, placing a slightly contemptous emphasis on the officer's title.

"Well sir, that is a textbook strategy for putting down a servile insurrection, taught in every Imperial academy in basic tactics. These Gallians are deserters from the Imperial Army; they're not citizen militia from some backwoods town. I would say they're at least as professional as most of the boys we have along.

"Traitors," Gregor sniffed.

"True, but that's neither here nor there, sir. My point is that these men we're talking about are professional enough not to desert at the first sign of trouble. If we start placing Imperial garrisons in every bite-sized town in Gallia to pacify them all, the Gallians are good enough to defeat them without taking significant losses. At some point, we're going to have to have a stand-up battle to stop our forces from being defeated in detail. Like you've said yourself General, this is their country."

Franz paused to gaze down at the map of Gallia spread out before them. "They can disappear into it better than we can. I think every man here from the East can say the same." Heads nodded around the table. "They can choose a battlefield that favors them, not something I would want if a good part of our force was off somewhere else playing nursemaid to a handful of towns with no strategic significance."

"An interesting argument _Oberst_," General Hermann said thoughtfully. "What would you suggest then?"

Franz waited a moment before voicing his suggestion. "Stay here, sir."

"Stay..._here_?" The General's usually ever-present smile strained at the edges slightly. "We must occupy Gallia, _Oberst_, That is why we are here."

Franz was ready for that. "I know sir, but the Gallians will attack us if we stay here. It's much easier to defend than attack, and I believe that using General Gregor's occupation stategy would be much easier if we smashed their regular army first. At the most, we'd have a partisan band or two which the city garrisons could deal with on their own."

"You said the Gallians would choose their own battlefield when you killed my plan, so why should this be any different?" Gregor pointed out peevishly.

"Yes, but General Damon won't be able to withstand all the politicians in Randgriz shouting in his ear to attack us here. We are an invader, _Brigadegeneral_, and no country can long afford to let an invader camp within its borders and maintain the goodwill of its people. Damon might be able to say that caution is necessary if we smash the garrison at Fouzen first, as according to your plan."

Gunther almost clapped his hands. Nothing slipped by Franz at all.

General Hermann was beginning to warm up to the idea as well. "If we smash their army here, there shouldn't be any reason we can't push on toward Randgriz and capture it like I wanted, right _Oberst_?"

"None at all, sir. Your plan would probably work beautifully if there was no army to oppose us.

Hermann beamed. That hit him where he lived. "Very well, we shall wait here as _Oberst_ Franz has suggested." He turned to the other officers. "Draft orders to your men to build field entrenchments around our encampment, and fortify our position in general."

"_Jawohl!_" the men chorused and began to file out.

Within the hour, sandbag walls began springing up around the camp, bristling with Imperial field artillery.

* * *

**Author's note:** As always, thanks to Markal and Chiemiangel for the beta.


	7. On the March

_April 9, 1836 - Southwest of Naggiar_

Dust, dust, dust. If Edel Wagner was at all bothered by the insidious haze being thrown up by hundreds of Gallian men on the march, he gave no outward sign of it.

"Hey, Sergeant!" one of the new privates called. "How long are we going to have to march back here behind the 44th?"

"For one thing, we've only been marching in this position for the last two hours," Edel shot back. "For another, you always complain about everything anyway. So stow it, Private Regard."

Suitably chastened, the Private marched along with no further comment.

Wolffe dropped back to march alongside Edel, glancing back over his shoulder. "Sheesh, give the kid a break, Edel. Don't you remember your first long march?"

"Yes, but I didn't complain about it nearly as much as he has," Edel said, his attention still fixed on the ranks. "As a matter of fact, no one here complains as much as Regard does."

Wolffe snorted. "Well, that's certainly true. But there are always a few goldbricks in every squad, you know?"

"Is that any reason for me to tolerate them?" Edel asked irritably, finally turning back to face the other sergeant.

"No, but just lighten up, 'right?" Wolffe remarked cheerfully. "No reason to be serious all the time just because you're the only doctor around here."

"'Lighten up'?" Edel repeated acridly. "In case you haven't noticed, I am not only the sole field surgeon moving up with this company, but I am also the Staff Sergeant of a combat unit. There is no place in that equation for the action of 'Lighten up'."

Wolffe shrugged and sped up his pace to escape Edel's glare. After a few minutes of maintaining his black mood, Edel sighed. It wasn't Wolffe's fault, really. It was simply the fact that being the only soldier with any form of _proper_ surgical training (field hospitals didn't count) for miles around happened to make for a rather stressful situation, one that was aggravated with his associated medical responsibility for other's lives. Coupled with the responsibilities of being the only Staff Sergeant in the company, the load tended to place Edel on edge whenever the unit was deployed.

The state the unit was in certainly didn't help. New equipment had been hastily issued barely hours before the march had begun. Uniforms maintained their sharp creases, while stubborn remnants of packing sawdust still clung to the odd rifle.

The unit was now beginning to enter a series of marshlands formed around the fork of two rivers Edel had never even heard of. Men cursed as the gluey mud started to suck at their boots. Cheslock tramped over to Edel, struggling with the weight of his heavy grenadier's equipment in the mud's vacuum. "Imps picked a great location, forcing us to march through this shit. We'll still be dripping this crap by the time we get to them." The man paused to wrench his boot from a particularly deep patch of muck, muttering darkly to himself. "It's odd though. The Imperial brand of stupid isn't very partial to defense."

"True, but we did chase an Imperial garrison out of Gallia last year. Perhaps they've finally wised up," Edel said with a rare smile. It wouldn't do to alienate Cheslock as well.

"I liked them better when they were idiots," Cheslock spat, taken aback at his superior's rare levity.

Edel was about to reply when one of the privates marching in front of them slipped and fell in the mud. A foul-smelling puddle cut off his string of oaths.

"Sarge, you think we'll sink further if we try to rescue the guy?" Cheslock asked as they walked over and reached to pluck the man out.

Edel didn't answer; his mind already on the battle ahead. _Will the men really be alright? We're completely..._

_

* * *

_

"-unprepared!" Ehren Gunther bellowed at a hapless engineer standing in front of half-completed bulwark of sandbags. "If you slack-jawed _dummkopfen_ don't pick up the pace, the Gallians will eat us alive!"

"We already outnumber them sir...I don't see why it matters," the engineer muttered mutinously.

"Why does it matter?" Gunther proceeded to tell the engineer, in highly original and explicit ways, just how the Gallians would proceed to make it matter to him very much indeed.

"_Hauptmann_ Gunther . . . a word with you, if you please." Franz's soft-spoken voice came from behind Gunther as the engineer turned back to his work.

"Just one moment, sir," Gunther said as he clambered out of the trench. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I came by to see how things were, but you seem to have them admirably in hand. If you don't mind me asking... do you intend to put _Feldwebel_ Czherny out of a job?" Franz asked as an amused twinkle appeared in his eye.

"Oh, I was just . . . _instilling_ some vigor in the man, sir," Gunther replied with a sheepish grin.

"Very well, carry on then," Franz chuckled. "In all seriousness though, let the noncommissioned officers do their jobs, and focus on your own. The command structure is there for a reason, you know."

"I'll keep it in mind, sir"

"Good. On the purpose of my visit, how are the fortifications coming?"

"Fairly well, sir. Most are completed, and the rest should be finished by this evening. As we hold the high ground, I can guarantee that we'll give the Gallians a warm welcome."

"Very good _Hauptmann_. Keep me informed of any developments from the forward pickets. As you were."

Gunther clicked his heels smartly. "Sir!" He turned back to the trenches as Franz rode away. The Colonel was an acknowledged master on the defensive. If the Gallians wished to take his works, they would have to pay dearly for them. Gunther intended they would never get anywhere near them.

* * *

**Authors Note:** Thanks to Markal and Chiemiangel for the beta.


	8. The Battle of Naggiar

_April 11, 1836 - Naggiar Plains_

The 147th Gallian Infantry Regiment advanced over the rolling fields of Naggiar to take up its position on the Gallian Army's right wing. Staff Sergeant Edel Wagner marched alongside the unit's ensign, looking over the ranks of Company F.

"F Company set your markers here! 1st and 2nd platoons fall out and prepare field positions in case we need to hold for a while. The rest of you, get ready to fight. Dismiss!" As the men broke ranks, Edel turned to Lieutenant Landzaat. "Any idea on when we might be moving out sir?"

"According to the General's plan, we move out in about an hour," Landzaat replied, surveying the field before them. "To be honest with you Edel, I don't like it. Those lines look _solid_."

"I don't quite understand why we're doing this sir. Wouldn't we be better served taking up defensive positions on the flank of their advance and waiting for them to attack us?"

Landzaat let out a humorless grunt. "Maybe you should be on the General's staff, because they can't seem to figure that out. From what I understand though, political pressure is forcing the General's hand."

"Polit-" Edel's comment was cut short as a courier rode up.

"The General's compliments sir," the messenger called. "He requests that I inform you that your units may be advancing later in the day than expected, as he wishes to test the lines using some forward deployed regiments."

"Which regiments might those be?" Landzaat demanded.

"I couldn't tell you sir," the scout said apologetically. "My orders are simply to convey this message."

Landzaat muttered under his breath before replying. "I understand. Convey the General my compliments and inform him we have received and acknowledged his orders." As the courier rode away, he turned back to Edel. "It seems we've gotten a reprieve. Give the men orders to that effect. Carry on, Sergeant."

Edel saluted rigidly and executed a neat about-face. "Listen up, men! We're moving out later in the day. 3rd Platoon! Join 1st and 2nd. That is all." The men began to dig rifle pits and throw up breastworks of dirt as the sun rose higher.

About an hour later, a column wheeled through the position, advancing toward the Imperial lines. Edel read the name on the unit's colors as it went by. "57th Auxiliary?" A Darcsen regiment then. "What do you make of this sir?" Edel asked Lieutenant Landzaat as the indigo-haired riflemen marched on. It was unusual for a Darcsen unit to be given the honor of leading an assault, practically unheard of.

"Hmm. It seems the ever politically-astute General has chosen to test the Imperial lines with an 'expendable' unit. Poor bastards."

"Shall I have the men standing by to advance as well sir?" Edel inquired.

"Yes, do. I rather doubt the General will turn this into a real assault though."

Edel watched the regiment's advance as it marched over the plains toward the Imperial's forward pickets. Even from this distance, he could tell when the Emperor's soldiers took notice of the advance as Imperial drums began to pound out the long roll sounding the men to action. Edel pulled out a field glass as the distance grew longer.

"Those Darcsens look well," Landzaat remarked, looking through his own glass. "Let's see if they can fight as well as they march."

Edel said nothing as the Imperial's breech-loading Gustavs and fifteen centimeter field pieces went into action. The cannon's roar started to intermingle with the sharper snarl of the rifles as the Darcsen lines and Imperial trenches began to trade fire. With a shout that was audible even to Edel, the 57th advanced at a quick trot toward the Imperial lines.

Looking away for a moment, Edel glanced toward Landzaat. "By the way sir, why aren't any of our guns giving support fire to this advance?"

"His eye still on the telescope, the lieutenant answered, "Well, I would imagine they don't want to give awa- My God! They're in!"

Edel whipped his own telescope to the faraway line. Sure enough, the 57th's ensign flew over the outermost Imperial trench.

Landzaat waved to a nearby courier. "My compliments to General Damon, and request permission that the 147th advance in reinforcement of the 57th Auxiliary's breakthrough."

"Sir." The messenger saluted and rode away.

"Edel, ready the men for an advance. Even Damon isn't going to throw away something like this."

"Yes sir," Edel said. "147th, prepare to advance! Lose anything you don't need out there and look to your weapons."

Cheslock grinned as he talked to the men around him, "Remember, we shoot anybody who is pointing this way. Guns down range!" The men smiled, remembering Wolffe's frequent admonition.

Landzaat paced as he squinted toward the sun. "How long is that courier going to take?" Just as he said this, the man himself appeared. "Finally!"

"My apologies sir. Headquarters denies permission for your advance."

Landzaat stared. "What?" he said disbelievingly. "Return to the General and stress that we are in a position to _carry the field_."

The courier however, was adamant. "These orders come from Brigadier Allen, not from the General. General Damon is out observing the positioning of our batteries, and is not at headquarters. The Brigadier's instructions were quite clear sir. We are not to advance in support of any Auxiliary Regiment."

"You mean let the _Darcsens_ die! My God, man! We can win this war right here, and we can't advance because of some petty little officer's bigotry!" Landzaat went on to describe with impressive spirit and imagination just what sort of ancestors Allen must have had to foster such incredible stupidity.

During this tirade, Edel kept his glass fixed on the distant colors. After about twenty minutes, it wavered, then fell. "The 57th is out of the fight sir," he said tonelessly as the last guns began to fall silent.

The lieutenant paused, then sighed heavily. "Well, I wouldn't have expected anything else. No unit in this whole army could have held that position without reinforcement or support. Order the men to stand down. I'll be in my tent if you need me."

The men dispersed quietly, muttering among themselves.

Wolffe walked up to Edel and tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey." Edel didn't answer. "Hell of a thing, huh? We could have won it all, but we threw it into the latrine."

"I know."

"Never figured Darcsens could fight like that though. If I ever see one of those guys, I'll need to buy him a drink. I don't think even we could have fought like that."

"I suppose it's because they need to prove that they can fight as well. They know they can't fail, or everyone will keep on looking at them like they're worthless," Edel said wearily.

Wolffe cocked his head. "You sound as if you know what you're talking about, anyway. How do you know all this anyway?"

Edel paused. "Perhaps some other time, Wolffe."

"Seriously, how would you-"

Cheslock cut in. "Well, you will fight your best when you can't do much else. You think they could deny those orders, even if they wanted to?"

Wolffe started. The corporal had walked up in complete silence. "Ah, John. I was just wondering why Edel knows so much about being an underdog."

"Not everybody starts with commissioned pay and a silver spoon. Is it your job to find out why?" Cheslock asked stiffly. Even so, he sounded rather curious himself.

"But-" Wolffe subsided. "Right. Sorry Edel."

"Never mind, it's alright," Edel said in his emotionless tone. "See to the men, both of you. I think we'll have our turn in a bit." As the pair walked away, the Staff Sergeant sighed, then stepped purposefully toward Lieutenant Landzaat's tent. They had a battle plan to make.

The sun was already beginning its descent towards the West when General Damon himself arrived at the 147th's position.

"I wanted to come around personally to talk to the regiments before the advance. There is a general advance at precisely seventeen hundred hours. I know that all you boys will do Gallia proud."

"With all due respect, _sir_," Lieutenant Landzaat said acidly, "We could have done you proud at _seven_ hundred hours if we were allowed to advance."

The General flinched. "I understand how you feel, Lieutenant, but sacrifices are an unfortunate necessity in wartime."

"When they actually _accomplish_ anything sir." Landzaat countered.

The General paused. "I appreciate the fact that you feel very strongly about this. However, I would mind my tongue around a general officer if I was you, _Lieutenant_." Damon wheeled his horse and left at a quick trot before Landzaat could say anything further.

Landzaat sighed and shook his head. "147th, we move out in thirty minutes. Ready yourselves, and I'll meet you on top of that hill. Dismiss."

The men milled about, talking quietly or lighting last smokes in the few minutes remaining.

"Form up 147th!" Edel called. "We're advancing in a staggered formation; your new trapdoors should make up the difference in firepower. Valkyrur protect every one of you, and I'll see you on top of the hill."

As the men formed up, an Imperial Gustav fired, it's rifled projectile sending out a signature moaning howl. Men dove for cover as the round impacted in a shower of dirt.

Sergeants cursed. "Reform your ranks, damn you! It's only a potshot!"

A nearby private had enough spirit to argue. "It's not your skin! Why should you care?! You idiots do what you like, I'm getting out of here!" The man threw down his rifle and sprinted for the rear.

"Regard, get back here!" Edel shouted. He did not respond.

"Shall I kill him?" Wolffe asked, raising his sharpshooter's rifle to his shoulder. Edel shook his head.

"We'll catch him later. We have bigger problems now." A pistol cracked abruptly. The private fell screaming, a neat hole in one leg.

"Nice shooting, John," Wolffe called.

Edel was amused despite himself. "Forget about him. If he bleeds to death it's his concern. Close ranks!"

As doubtful murmurs started in the ranks, Cheslock could be heard energetically ranting to his own unit. "I don't want any more of this crap, got it? This type of shit cuts into my booze pay!"

"Private Neumann! You are relieved," Edel called, stopping the ensuing laughter. The small drummer boy solemnly picked up his drum and sticks, then headed for the rear.

"Steady in the ranks!" Landzaat yelled. "147th will advance!" All along the line, other regiments started their advances as well.

"147th, _forward march!_" Edel shouted. The men shook themselves out into a loose skirmish line they left their position. Edel was gratified to see that the men did so with no mistakes or milling about. All that training had paid off, then.

The regiment advanced steadily over the field, closing ranks wherever a man fell. Edel looked about, noting with satisfaction that Lieutenant Landzaat had been correct in that the loose formation would be less vulnerable to artillery fire. Even so, the bombardment hadn't even really started yet.

"At the double quick!" Imperial artillery began firing in earnest now, ragnite-packed cannon balls and spiraled shells clawing holes in the ranks of men. The shell's inhuman shrieks were soon joined by the all-too-human screams of wounded and dying men.

One of Company F's privates howled and crumpled, clutching at his leg. Edel waved over his first stretcher-bearer, shouting over the battle's roar. "Turner! Get back there and take him to the rear, then report back to me!" Waiting only for a timid nod, Edel turned his attention back to the battle.

As the regiment closed the distance, Imperial riflemen joined the fray, cutting down more of the 147th. Edel turned to face Lieutenant Landzaat, waiting for the order.

"Come on boys! _Charge!_" Landzaat finally shouted, waving his saber. The men leapt forward at a dead run, advancing into the haze of smoke.

"I'm stopping here, Edel!" Wolffe shouted, dropping to his stomach with his scoped Foster in hand. Edel was too harried to acknowledge. The unit finally reached a patch fairly level with the Imperial works, and came to a halt. Hammers clicked as rifles were aimed at the milling figures behind the sandbags.

"Fire!" The word was lost in a crescendo as hundreds of rifles went off simultaneously. "Reload!" The men flipped opened the loading gates on their trapdoors and inserted a fresh round, ejecting the spent cartridge in the process. "Fire!" The process repeated itself, the steady volleys disappearing as more men fell.

Even as he worked the action, Edel marveled at how quickly the rifles could be reloaded compared to the old muzzle-loaders. All the same, men were going down on all sides. Edel dropped down and started to crawl.

As an Imperial field piece swung around to face the ranks, it's yawning bore pointed, paused, then bellowed. Edel's blood ran cold as he heard the hiss of lead balls. "Canister! Get dow-" It was too late. To his right, an entire file of men was swept away as cleanly as if done with a scythe.

Turner crawled up behind him, tapping his shoulder. "The fire's getting too hot for anyone else to come back!" he screamed. "It's just you and me, sergeant!" _Damn! _All around, men were dropping down flat to fire, not having the courage to stand. As he watched, Cheslock rose up onto one knee, fired a grenade, then dropped back down. _Well_, he thought wryly, _If even that maniac is getting down flat, I suppose no one's going to get back up._ Taking advantage of the momentary respite the grenade created, he crawled over to the lieutenant, crouched next to the ensign.

"Your orders, sir?" he shouted. It was becoming hard to hear anything below the level of a scream over the thunderclap of the two armies.

"It doesn't look like we can do anything here, does it?" Landzaat shouted back. "We'll stay here until nightfall, then try to get out of this place. In the meantime, just see if any wounded are in a fit state to come back with us."

"Sir! Come on Turner!" he yelled over his shoulder.

"Coming, sergeant," the stretcher-bearer replied obediently. Edel crept along the line, clutching a bulky medical satchel. The first man they came across was already going grey, his eyes rolling back into their sockets. Edel moved on; the man was past help.

The next private they found was definitely alive, but it was apparent that this could change quickly. He was silent, pasty-white and leaning against a small defilade with his rifle dropped carelessly beside him. His quivering hands were clutched over his gut, sticky with blood.

"Turner, he's hit in the stomach, get the bottle of laudanum." Turner fumbled and then yanked out the small bottle of the drug. Edel forced the bottle past the man's clenched teeth, pouring a few drops down his throat. The generous dose acted quickly, and the man's limp hands slid away from his abdomen with a sigh. Taking off the man's shirt and jacket, Edel examined the mess of exposed innards briefly, then dug into his kit.

Normally, Edel's concern would have been stabilizing the man enough to get him to a hospital, but as the unit was pinned, the private would have to last till nightfall. Edel turned him over slightly, looking for an exit wound. Nothing. The bullet was still inside then. Edel made a quick executive decision; there wasn't enough time to extract the round, the bullet would have to stay until the man got to a field hospital. He dug back into his kit, pulling out a roll of bandages and a packet of ragnite.

"Turner, your canteen." The private handed him the quart-sized bottle. Edel deftly ripped open the packet of ragnite, pouring its contents into the canteen. Propping the man up slightly, the sergeant began to wash out the wound with the resulting solution. The combination would eliminate dirt and prevent the fever that invariably came with belly wounds. All the same, the man's chances weren't good.

When he had finished cleaning the wound cavity, Edel looped the private's intestine back inside. Definitely not the neatest it could be, but the sergeant had no more time to waste. He stuffed a new bandage coated with ragnite into the wound, watching the white cloth turn a vivid scarlet. After he wrapped a final band of cloth around the dressing to keep it in place, Edel sat back with a sigh.

"You do good work, sergeant," Turner piped up. " I wouldn't have given an eighth ducat for his chances when we found him, but I actually think he'll make it."

Edel looked back at the private. "That's assuming we can get him off this hill. Come on, we still have work to do." The pair crawled off in search of more wounded. There would be no shortage of them that day.

* * *

**Author's Note:** As repetitive as this is starting to sound, thanks to Markal and Chiemiangel for the beta.


	9. Embers of Resistance

_April 15, 1836 - Northeast of Vasel_

Ehren Gunther trotted down the dirt path, surveying the trees to either side of him. The II Imperial Cavalry was heading up a side route towards a small town. The settlement straddled the main road that led towards the bridge at Vasel. Their objective was to clear the settlement of any Gallian resistance and then report back to Brigadier Gregor.

Ever since the crushing Imperial victory at Naggiar four days ago, the Imperial Army had been on the advance, seizing town after town from the shattered Gallian Army. Aside from the small fact that a Darcsen unit had broken into one of his outermost trenches, the battle had gone exactly as Franz had predicted, with the Gallians chopping themselves to pieces outside the works.

Gunther muttered under his breath to himself. What exactly had gone wrong? Darcsens had no _right_ being such effective fighters. Even though he would never admit it to any of them, Gunther was far from sure whether his own men could have done so much. At any rate, he would never find out now. The reinforcements sent in to seal the gap torn in the line had been . . . thorough in eliminating all resistance.

"Hey, bro!" Gunther looked up with a guilty start. In his reverie, he had been forgetting to keep watch on his surroundings.

"Yes Alvin?" Sergeant Major Alvin Schmidt was one of Gunther's oldest noncommissioned officers. Both of them had even been in the same Physical Training class. He could get away with talk that would have new recruits cooling their heels in the stockade. For that matter, Schmidt _had_ ended up in the stockade when Brigadier Gregor had heard him ragging Gunther about a pretty girl they had seen in town.

"Well, I was just thinking, don't you think this place is pretty nice? No goddamn snipers around or anything."

"Hmm. You do have a point. No snipers make for a much better experience all around." He glared suspiciously at a nearby pine as if he expected it to be bristling with sharpshooters. "Still, though..."

Gunther thought for a moment. The Gallians had slipped off the hill at Naggiar the night after the battle and had given the Imperials no end of trouble since then, making stand after stand in every other worthless Gallian town on the map as stubbornly as if they were defending Randgriz itself. All the same, the sheer size of the Imperial Army had crushed the small pockets of Gallian troops before any serious resistance could develop. "Maybe we just got rid of them all?" he offered lamely.

Schmidt's expression showed what he thought of Gunther's suggestion. "And maybe you're not getting enough sleep. If you actually believe that the Gallians are all gone, tell me what you want on your tombstone. I'll send flowers," he said scathingly.

Gunther waved a finger at the sergeant. "Very funny Alvin. I have my limits you know." Laughing, his friend rode on. Just because the man was mouthy didn't mean he was wrong though. Gunther turned and looked back at his men. "Stay sharp boys! Don't let any bushwhackers get you." He hunkered down in the saddle and tried to silence the jingle of the bridle. After about ten minutes of an aching back and neck, he gave it up as a bad job and went back to scanning the woods.

At about noon, the cavalrymen began to enter the outskirts of the village. Dirt gave way to cobblestones and the trees receded away from the column. Pausing next to a picturesque little farmhouse, Gunther pulled out a small telescope and began scanning the crossroads ahead. He smiled. The Gallians were constructing a barricade facing away from them, toward the main road into the town. It looked fairly solid, even sporting a surviving artillery piece.

"All right boys, looks like we caught 'em with their breeches down," he said turning in the saddle. "Let's-" He saw a rifle barrel glint in a nearby bush. _Shit!_

Rifles barked from the trees and bushes, scything several men out of their saddles. The sound sent the barricade crew scrambling for their guns as well. An artilleryman leapt to the cannon's handspike and swiveled the twelve-pounder around to point down the street at the beleaguered Imperials. Even at this range, the bore looked massive to Gunther. He began to shout for the men to fall back, but the words died before they left his throat. A line of Gallian riflemen had broken cover behind them and formed a line across the cobbled road, bayonets gleaming coldly.

"Ehren!" Schmidt shouted. "We have to cut through the town and go back up the main road! We don't have a chance of breaking that line before we're all dead!" Gunther paused for a moment. Cavalry wasn't made for charging bayonets, and even their new rifles couldn't break that line before they were hacked to pieces by the infantry in the forest.

"Good idea!" he yelled back. "All right men! We're going to mount a charge up that street, jump the barricade, then go on up the road and rejoin the main column!" He waited briefly to make sure the men heard the order. "Charge!"

The troopers swiftly formed ranks and then swept down the street, shouting curses at the Gallians before them. The cannon fired down the street, its shell bursting over the men's heads. Two more troopers tumbled from their horses. That was the only shot it got off before Gunther and his cavalry reached it, hacking at the men serving the piece with their sabers. Rifles cracked, dropping more of Gunther's men. The cavalry milled about behind the wall, taking swipes at any rifleman unwary enough to close with them. Then they were out, the horses jumping the low barricade of sandbags and galloping up the road towards the main Imperial column.

Colonel Franz met them as they came. "So, _Hauptmann_ Gunther, I take it that you've met with some difficulties?"

"Afraid so sir. Valkyrur-cursed Gallians ambushed us on the side path heading into the town," Gunther said forlornly.

"It must have been quite an ambush for you to lose all these men," Franz noted.

"Yes sir, those bastar-"

"I understand your sentiments, _Hauptmann_, but let us return to the subject at hand. What exactly happened?" Franz asked crisply. Gunther reluctantly explained the events leading up to the skirmish and the fight to break out of the little town. Franz quirked an eyebrow. "So allow me to reiterate. You went out on patrol, encountered a small enemy force before you, decided to attack it without affirming the situation, and got ambushed by a force hiding on your flanks. Any of this sound familiar?" Gunther flinched. Franz was always the most devastating when he was being cynical.

"My apologies sir, it won't happen again."

Franz waved it aside. "Never mind. You're one of my better officers, so I won't give you any further grief about it. Just make sure to learn from your mistakes." He paused. "Your men will thank you for it, if no one else."

"Sir."

"At any rate, we need to plan what our next move should be." Franz waved over Furst and his pair of lieutenants as they trotted over to the side of the road and called for a ten minute break. Gunther nodded to the other captain as he dismounted and walked over.

Franz knelt and spread a map on the short grass. "According to Hauptmann Gunther's report, there is at least one artillery piece and a company of infantry holding the town. As I do not wish to lose two companies eliminating one of the enemy's, I suggest we slide a pair of companies through the woods, then advance on the main road in force." Of course, the colonel's "suggestions" were always followed to the letter, and within an hour, the Imperial Army was cautiously probing the edges of the town for defenses. By then, the Gallians were quite naturally long gone.


	10. Outstation 12

_Rusgren Pass - April 19, 1836_

"Get up! Out of bed you lazy lugs!" Sergeant Kasu grunted as a boot prodded him in the stomach. For a moment he had thought himself still on his old master's estate in the Empire. Then he recognized Master Sergeant Kaza's voice and relaxed. While the other sergeant was far stricter than Count Zeiss had ever dreamt of being, he was here voluntarily, and that made all the difference in the world.

"I'm awake, I'm awake," he mumbled as he rolled off his cot and fumbled for his boots. He stumbled over to the small washbasin at the edge of the tent and washed his face. He looked in the fragment of mirror and surveyed himself critically. His dark indigo hair, a damning count against him anywhere in Europa, stuck up from his head. He smoothed it down impatiently. More importantly, the uniform he was wearing said what he was more effectively than his hair ever would. He straightened proudly.

"Kasu! Stop looking at yourself like a cat in a bowl of cream and get out here for roll call!" the Master Sergeant shouted. _Cat_ was not the word he used. The men formed up out on the small parade ground of Outstation 12, coming to attention as the Major strode out of his tent.

Major Weber nodded to the assembled men. "Master Sergeant, call the roll!"

"Sir!" He looked down at a small piece of paper in his hands. "Aiden!"

A salute. "Sir."

Kasu's mind wandered as the sergeant continued the roll. The unit had been formed last winter, in the mad rush for more bodies in uniforms to meet the Imperial tide. Since then, they'd been stuck in this pass at the ass end of nowhere, with almost no contact with the outside world.

"Gatz!"

"Sir." Gatz. The engineer was Kasu's best friend from their days working in a foundry near Fouzen, after Kasu had crossed the border from the Empire. He was as bright as any man Kasu had ever seen, but his Darcsen heritage had prevented him from rising in the ranks. As a regular Gallian, he would have had his own firm by now.

"Kasu!"

"Sir," he said, returning his attention to the count.

"Kay!" Continuing on down the line, the Master Sergeant finally ended the roll with Zeyd. Turning back to Major Weber, he saluted smartly. "All present and accounted for sir," he said crisply.

"Very well Sergeant, carry on."

The Master Sergeant turned back to the assembled unit. "Alright men, we'll be resuming that left reverse wheel that we were working on yesterday! There'll be no breakfast for any of you until we get this down!"

Kasu groaned along with the rest of his messmates. "Have a heart, Sergeant!" Gatz howled.

The man grinned sadistically. "I do, Corporal. So to show my appreciation for the fine work you boys are doing, I'll eat my breakfast here with you while you drill."

Gatz's expression could have been placed under the entry for "horrified" in the dictionary. Kasu quickly put his own platoon together, pushing them toward the open area used for maneuvers. He was not about to go without breakfast after skipping dinner the previous day as the unit had struggled to perfect the formation to Kaza's exacting standard.

Even motivated as they were, it took the men the better part of three hours before the sergeant grunted in satisfaction. "Alright," he said finally. "Dismissed." Almost before the words had left his mouth, the men had already gotten halfway off the parade ground towards the cook's tents.

Gatz came up as they lined up in front of the huge steaming pots the cooks were doling breakfast out of. "Hey. Wanna help with my project tonight?"

"Sure," Kasu replied, taking his eyes off the food for a split moment. "Same time?"

"Yeah," Gatz replied. "I still can't-"

"Here you go!" The bright, almost cheery voice did not fit any preconceived notion Kasu might have had of army cooks before enlisting.

"Thanks Lin," he said with genuine gratitude. "When the Sarge says no food until we get it right, he really means it."

The girl behind the counter grinned. "Well, good luck with that. I'm sure you'll do better than my brother."

Gatz sputtered in mock outrage. "Hoi! What's your problem?"

"You managed to drop eggs on the Major's head; it doesn't get much worse than that," she said tartly.

Gatz was about to reply when the line swept him past his sister.

"Hey, take an even strain," Kasu said. "We're probably the only unit in the whole damn army to have girls with our outfit. That's gotta count for something."

"Yeah well, the only reason it happens is because we're stuck in just one place and Major Weber doesn't give a shit about regulations," Gatz said indifferently. "It's probably the only reason why we're doing all these super-complicated parade ground drills too, so it's not even all that great."

Kasu considered for a moment. It was true. Ever since the men had proven they could do the regular maneuvers inside out in their sleep from having nothing else to do, the Major had been assigning ever more complicated assignments for them to complete. "Well, when you're right, you're right."

As they sat down at a table with their fellow noncommissioned officers, Kasu noticed the man himself deeply in conversation with a Darcsen courier at another table.

"Hey, when did Mosby make it back from Randgriz?"

Gatz looked up from his bowl. "No idea. Looks like death warmed over though."

Kasu soon forgot about the courier as he went back to his food, laughing with the other men at his table.

The Major waved them over as they stood up. "Will all of you please come here for a moment?" Despite his genial tone, his expression was grave.

The noncommissioned officers saluted as one. "Sir." Besides the Master Sergeant, the 57th Auxiliary Regiment currently sported three sergeants including Kasu, and twice that many corporals. Most of the regiment's strength had been diverted away to Randgriz for the Army's buildup in the spring along with the 21st, 33rd, and 108th Auxiliaries The end result was that the so-called "regiment" was now down to battalion strength, with a mere five hundred men.

Gatz grinned at the courier as they came up. "What's going on, Mosby? What's the news?"

The courier exchanged a hooded glance with Major Weber before answering. The Major nodded wearily, waving a hand for the man to answer.

"The Imps licked us at Naggiar," he said bluntly. "Smashed our boys to hell and gone; last I heard the army's running back toward Randgriz, and the Imps are right behind 'em."

Kasu's mind reeled as the other men broke into concerned murmurs, calculating ramifications. "Hold on a minute," he said abruptly. "Did you hear about what happened to our boys from the 57th up there?"

"Sure did," Mosby answered soberly. "General Damon threw 'em forward first to test the lines. Heard tell they even broke through." The messenger's face hardened. "From what I heard though, he wouldn't reinforce no Darcsens, and just left 'em up there by their lonesome. Nary one of our boys made it back out. Imps don't like Darcsens in uniform any more than Damon does."

One of the other sergeants buried his face in his hands. "Goddamn."

"Damn straight," Gatz said with feeling. "I want to-"

"Please," the Major broke in. "I understand how you gentlemen feel, but do restrain yourselves. Break the news to your men as best you can."

The noncoms dispersed, walking back to their men in silence.

After sharing the bad news with his platoon, Kasu walked around the base, looking for Gatz. He finally found the engineer in one of the myriad tunnel shafts left over in the pass from the days when it was a massive center of Ragnite production.

"What's going on, man?" he asked as he approached the muted glow of Gatz's lantern.

His friend's head popped up from behind a nearby stack of pallets. "Oh, it's you. I just wanted to work on something to get my mind off of... everything."

Kasu nodded toward Gatz's pet project. The engineer had been using all his spare time and machinery left in the mines to complete his vision for the last few months. "And you decided to work on this?"

"Yeah, it might help with the war, and-"

"Help with the next war at this rate," Lin said, standing up.

Kasu started violently. He hadn't noticed the slight girl in the gloom of the tunnel shaft. "You helping Gatz?" Kasu asked in an attempt to regain his composure.

"Yep. But he's so pig-headed about the way he wants it to be; a partitioned design would be _much_ more-"

"Hey! I just-"

Kasu turned away from the squabbling siblings to look at the device resting on the floor. Metal gleamed softly in the lantern's glow. "Finish it Gatz," he said softly to himself. "I think we'll need all the help we can get in this war."


	11. Losing Proposition

_Northeast of Vasel - April 21, 1836_

"No chance in hell, sir," Staff Sergeant Edel Wagner said firmly. "Trying to hold this town is a losing proposition."

The lieutenant sighed. "So you think so too, hm? I was hoping I would be wrong."

"I am afraid you were completely right, sir. The position here is completely indefensible," Edel repeated.

Lieutenant Landzaat looked about the town with no small amount of regret. "Well, nothing else for it. Form up our men and break camp. If we're not going to defend it, I want to be far away as possible."

"Yes sir. I'll see to it directly." Edel saluted as the officer sighed again and rode slowly away. He walked back to the huddle of men waiting for him by the road.

"So? We holding or running?" Wolffe asked as he came.

"Running, apparently. We haven't much time. Get your men together, and get ready to march."

As the sergeants moved off to their squads, shouting for the men to form up, Tillock walked slowly up to Edel.

"Begging your pardon Staff Sergeant, but . . . May I have leave to march with Sergeant Wolffe's squad again today?"

Edel surveyed him and then slowly nodded. "Permission granted." The underofficer had been acting like a man beyond the grave since Naggiar, and he had reason. As the sergeant turned to go, Edel spoke abruptly. "Wait a moment please. How are things . . . James?"

The man turned at Edel's rare usage of his first name. "I'm alright, Sergeant. It's my men that need worrying about." Since the unit had regrouped after the battle, not one man from Tillock's squad had turned up. Edel could see the worry eating at the man like a disease.

"Don't worry too much. Some of them are bound to turn up once we get back to Randgriz."

The other sergeant's face twisted. "Some, maybe. It still kills me not knowing what happened to my boys. I know I was rough on 'em sometimes, but they were still _my_ lads."

Edel saw an unshed tear shining in the man's eye. Awkwardly, he stared down at his brogans. "Very well, carry on then," he said at last. "Come see me if you ever need anything though."

"Sir." The underofficer saluted mechanically and walked back toward the gathering soldiers.

As Lieutenant Landzaat rode back into the small village square in front of the men, Edel snapped to attention and tore off a salute. "All present and accounted for, sir. 147th Volunteer Infantry Regiment is ready to march."

"Very well, Staff Sergeant. We-" The lieutenant paused as a squad of riflemen entered the square at a run. Dismounting, he turned to Edel. "Let's go see what they want."

"Sir." Edel followed Landzaat as he walked up to the breathless men panting in the square.

"I am Lieutenant Landzaat of the 147th Infantry. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"I'm . . . William . . . Calvey . . . Petersburg Militia... sir!" he said between gasps.

"Well Mr. Calvey, as you can see, we're pulling out in a few minutes, so if you could keep it brief?"

Regaining his wind, the man stood up. "I apologize for the suddenness of our request sir, but could you aid us in defending this town?"

The Lieutenant looked at Edel awkwardly before turning back to Calvey. "I'm sorry, but we have already decided there is no chance we can hold this town. The army is pulling out, and I encourage your militia to do the same. There isn't even the smallest hope you can hold the town, and fighting will only create needless casualties for yourselves."

Edel looked on wearily. How many times had he heard that speech given to desperate men trying to defend their homes and land? Too many. All too many. He looked back up as the man broke in.

"I understand that, sir. What I am requesting is that you gentlemen aid us in delaying the Imperials long enough for our people to finish pulling out."

Landzaat exploded. "What? Are you saying you still have civilians in the town? All towns received evacuation orders two days ago!"

"I understand sir, but we had a field hospital set up in that old temple back there, and the army gave precedence to evacuating it's own. We don't have any horses or livestock left, and it's slow going pushing the carts by hand," the militiaman said helplessly.

The Lieutenant cursed under his breath. "A moment if you please."

"Certainly."

He turned to face Edel. "Well? What do you think Sergeant?"

Edel considered a moment. "I think we can hold them for about three hours sir. More if we're reinforced by the 89th." The other regiment was badly beaten too, but it would bring their total count to about nine hundred men. "Normally I would say it's not worth it losing so many men for a few civilians, but the Imperial column's being led by the II Brigade. General Gregor's."

Landzaat's face soured, as if he had smelled something rotten. "I know the General's habits concerning 'enemy' civilians as well as anyone, Sergeant, and I don't care for them. Looks like we'll have to hold here then. What was the unit behind them again?"

Edel consulted the mental directory in his head. "According to the latest from the 89th, General Meister's XXVII Corps. They're one of the newer units, but they do have artillery in their train."

"Hmm. If they're green, we can hold them until their artillery sets up, maybe a little past then. Perhaps even into the early evening."

"Yes sir." Edel considered. "We should send a runner to the 89th asking for their help." The 89th Regiment was the last regiment in the column behind them, in charge of the rearguard of the Gallian Army.

"Yes, do so Sergeant." Landzaat turned back toward the waiting men on the green. "Very well gentlemen, we will assist in defending the town. Sergeant Edel, I am placing these men under your command."

Over the next few hours, Edel feverishly worked the men, dismantling nearby fences and walls to form makeshift barricades in the streets.

"Get those sandbags into those gaps! Watch that log there!" With a new command and a purpose to accomplish, Tillock was a new man. He worked the militia in his newly-minted squad like a man possessed, barking orders and setting up defenses.

Near noon, the battered remnants of the 89th Regiment came into the line alongside the 147th. "It's real good to see you," one of the men called. "Valkyrur-cursed Imps're breathing down our necks here."

Edel waved back. "You men take those side streets. We've already set up barricades, just defend them. We'll hold the main avenue here."

"Mighty obliged." With an answering wave, the column peeled off and filed into the works on either side of the main road.

Edel turned and addressed his subordinates. "If the 89th is here, the Imperials can't be too far off. Go see to your men and get them ready for whatever may come. Valkyrur be with you."

"Sir." Snapping off identical salutes, the other sergeants sprinted down the line, shouting orders to their entrenched men.

The last of the 89th's skirmishers ran out of the woods as the Imperial II Cavalry rounded the bend in the road, colors waving. The column hesitated at seeing the barricades in the streets, but eventually came on toward the works. The assault was thrown back in short order, and the cavalry milled about in confusion near the treeline, barely out of rifle range. The general mood appeared to be one of general confusion at meeting resistance stronger than a handful of militia. Finally, a rider came forward under a flag of truce.

"Surrender!" he shouted. "General Gregor orders you to surrender at once, and promises that you will not be harmed."

"Piss off!" a man - perhaps Cheslock - retorted. "And you can tell Gregor to ram that 'promise' up where the sun doesn't shine!" Edel grinned despite himself. Definitely Cheslock.

The courier gaped in a combination of horror and outrage. "You dare abuse _General _Gregor so?"

"Yeah! Put that in your pipe and smoke it!" Wolffe shouted back.

The messenger swelled up in righteous indignation as more abuse showered down from along the line. He reminded Edel of nothing more than an irate chipmunk.

"On your own heads it be!" The man stormed back to his horse and rode off toward the Imperial line.

Despite Edel's expectation that General Gregor would land on them with both feet immediately for the _Lèse majesté,_ the General surprised him by doing a good deal of nothing for the next few hours. Apparently Gregor was somewhat skittish about attacking fortifications.

At long last, in the early afternoon, the leading elements of the XXVII Corps rounded the bend as well, slowly shaking themselves out into a ragged line. Green troops indeed.

"Here they come boys!" Edel shouted. "Get ready!"

With a huzzah, the Imperial troops rushed the barricades, shooting as they came.

"Fire!" Flame rippled down the line as the 147th poured shot into the advancing Imperial line. Men screamed and fell as volley after volley slammed into their ranks.

In spite of the punishing fire, the Imperials pushed on towards the works. Edel looked on in a mixture of pity and satisfaction. Veteran soldiers wouldn't have slammed home against the works like that. These raw Imperials did though, and paid the price. Dead men lay scattered over the field before them, looking for all the world as if they were toy soldiers discarded by a child after a game. But toy soldiers didn't have comrades who screamed and scrabbled vainly in an attempt to put themselves back together.

Turning his back on the grisly sight, Edel looked up to see Lieutenant Landzaat riding down the line toward him.

"How are things holding here Sergeant?" he called.

"Fine, sir. Minimal casualties, no fatalities. A better result than I had looked for."

"Very good." The officer studied for a moment before swinging off his horse and walking over to Edel. "Might as well stay here then. Any new developments for our friends across the way?"

"Minimal activity sir, but the rest of the XXVII Corps is still coming down. If they build up, then attack again-"

"I don't think they'll wait to get a whole division into the line, that'd take the rest of the day," Landzaat said musingly.

"With respect sir, they don't need an entire division. We only have about a regiment's worth of men here."

Messengers from all parts of the line were beginning to converge on the pair.

"Sir, Sergeant Tillock reports that the militia was giving on the flank, so he pulled up about half the reserve. We are holding steady sir."

"The 89th reports no significant assault on their position and ask if you have any suggestions on their displacement sir."

Landzaat considered for a moment. "Here's what we'll do. Order Sergeant Tillock to pull up all reserves and occupy the flanks currently held by the 89th." He turned to the other unit's messenger. "Request to your commander that he pull the 89th off our flanks and move it alongside our line here on the main road."

As the men saluted and returned to their posts, the lieutenant turned back to Edel. "That way when Meister pushes back up, he'll hit two regiments, not just one. That ought to be enough to hold him until they bring up the artillery."

The Imperials waited a while to reform, then surged forward again as the Gallians were finishing their new arrangements. This time the assault went on and on. General Meister threw his troops into the attack as soon as they rounded the bend, barely pausing for them to form battle lines. After what felt like fifty years, but what Edel's watch insisted was only three hours, (he kept checking every four years and was amazed to find only fifteen minutes had gone by) the Imperial tide ebbed, then receded.

Edel leaned back against the rough-hewn wood of the barricade, breathing heavily. "Good thing they stopped. I think we couldn't have held another one."

Lieutenant Landzaat looked up from reloading his pistol. "But we did hold them." He grinned. "And by now, the civilians are probably all clear of the town. We just need to hold them a little longer to make sure the Imperials won't pursue."

The sergeant squinted critically at the angry red ball dipping under the horizon. "I'd say we need to hold another hour or so. If they rush us, I'm not sure we can."

Wolffe, who had been unusually silent the whole time, rolled over and tapped Edel on the shoulder. "Hey, looks like they finally managed to sort themselves out."

Edel looked at the trees to see an artillery battery emerging from the woods. He sighed. "Looks like we have to stand here and take the gaff for at least an hour. Tell all our boys to hunker down and sit tight. This is going to get rough." He looked back out at the wide expanse of cleared land that had been the reason he hadn't wanted to stay in the first place. It also happened to be a gorgeous field of fire for any artillery battery, with completely no obstructions and with a target that sat in a minor depression.

The sergeant flicked his gaze up as the field guns deployed. He frowned. The big guns were setting up at barely half their effective range. He had no further time to ponder the question as the batteries opened fire.

It had been a long time since Edel had been shelled, but memories came back quickly. The shells howled as they came, exploding among the barricade logs and spraying splinters and dirt over the men behind them. Blast slammed him back against the wall of the small hole he was crouched in. Edel tasted blood as he bit his tongue. As the pounding went on, Edel grew numb to the continuous roar.

"Mama!" one of the men screamed into a momentary lull in the shelling.

Edel rolled over and shouted into Wolffe's ear. "If the battery's that close, can you get a shot off at a gunner? Those guns are killing us here!"

"I don't know! I'll see what I can do!" he yelled back. Wolffe popped up over the top of the barricade for a moment, scanned for a moment, then fired quickly.

"Did you-" A huge blast reechoed over the sound of the battle. "What the-" Edel peeped over the top himself. Thick smoke rose from what was now a distinct gap in the battery. A gun lay in the field, the smoking debris of its carriage now barely distinguishable from the bloody scraps of its crew. He turned to Wolffe. "What did you do?"

Wolffe smiled in satisfaction as the guns began to fall silent and pull back to the trees. "I shot one of the loaders in the hand when he was reaching for a shell. He dropped it into the caisson on the nose. Those Imperial shells are super sensitive once you arm them, so..."

Edel stared. At that range, a shot to the hand was improbably lucky, or incredibly great. The Imperial artillery picked up their fire again from the treeline, but was now much less accurate, with most of the shells whizzing over or dropping in front of the line.

Wolffe turned to look at the cannons. "So that's why they got so close," he said musingly. They aren't good enough to hit a target this thin otherwise. I guess the XXVII's _really_ new."

Edel laughed in sheer relief. "Well, they probably didn't expect any real resistance until they got nearer to a big city like Vasel. They might have just wanted to give the new fish some more experience."

He idly watched a shell fly high over them and impact in the spire of an old Valkyrian temple. "Anyway, you gave us a chance to pull out. I guess you are useful every now and then."

Wolffe grinned smugly. He opened his mouth to respond when Lieutenant Landzaat cut him off. "I'd say the enemy's reforming for another charge now that those guns aren't doing so much. Prepare the men to fight, but get ready to pull out. We're done here."

"Sir," Edel saluted. "89th Infantry is relieved!" he shouted. The unit raised a weary cheer and started to fall back as officers shouted marching orders. The 89th's commander rode up and saluted.

"Your men did one hell of a job Lieutenant," he said. "If you ever need anything, look up Lieutenant Thomas, at your service."

Landzaat gravely returned the salute. "I'll bear it in mind," he said. "As you go, would you pull back the militia and reserve on our flanks? They don't matter anymore. We'll cover the retreat."

"I will do so." With that, the officer rode off after his men.

The Imperials came on once more, grimly charging the fortifications. However, the attack was not delivered with anywhere near the same dash and vigor that had accompanied the previous assaults. The Imperials probed forward almost cautiously, flinching at every sound. As they drew within a hundred meters, the 147th loosed a final devastating volley into their ranks.

"Alright boys, run for it!" the Lieutenant barked. The men turned and fled down the road, pausing occasionally to loose a pot-shot at the Imperials. They needn't have bothered. The Imperials stopped at the barricade, too worn out or too fearful to continue the pursuit.

The regiment reached the outskirts of the town in high spirits, laughing and joking about their feat. "We licked a whole damned corps!"

"Hell, if there was more of us, it woulda been the Imps getting run out of town!"

"Umm... excuse me." The nearest men turned as a young woman addressed them.

"Yes, Miss… aah...?" Edel asked.

"Smith, sir. This town would like to thank you for your efforts to defend us as you did. Please, accept this small token of our appreciation."

"That's quite unnec-" Edel began, only to have Wolffe cut in.

"Thank you very much ma'am," he said, bowing as if she were a noble lady from Randgriz. "On behalf of my men, I humbly accept your gracious gift." He finished with another outrageous bow. "Umm... If I may inquire, what is the gift your ladyship has deigned to bestow on your humble defenders?"

Edel snorted. Wolffe only acted like this around any pretty women he might happen to find. As the girl blushed and stammered a denial, Wolffe bowed a third time over her hand and gallantly escorted her to the nearby wagon piled with crates. Cheslock shook his head and muttered aloud, "If sucking up is his idea of getting laid, he's got the 'pathetic' part down pat..."

Edel actually laughed out loud at Cheslock's bemused expression. Surviving a battle made the world seem a better place in general. He walked over to the wagon as well, still laughing quietly to himself.

"What's up?" Wolffe asked as he strode up. "Did something funny happen?"

Edel quickly schooled his face back into its normal neutral expression. "Nothing important. So, no dice with the lady?"

Wolffe winced and rubbed his chin. "Nothin'. She slugged me a good one."

The Staff Sergeant turned his attention back to the present. "What did they give us then?"

"Looks like food." Calling an engineer to pry the crates open with a bar, the pair looked over the contents as they handed them off the wagon. Bacon, flour, apples, preserves, jerky, ham, _moink!_

"Eh?" Wolffe peered into the last crate, and snapped his head back abruptly as a pale pink object streaked past. "What the hell?" What appeared to be a small pig with wings fluttered in front of them. "What is that thing?"

"It's a Porcavian. Supposed to be lucky or something." Cheslock said, munching on a piece of ham. He froze abruptly, then gesticulated between the fluttering animal and the preserved meat with almost comical confusion.

"Well, it's probably a pet or something," Wolffe said, casting about for the girl. "Looks like it doesn't belong to anyone here though."

Edel mused for a moment. "Well, since it's a pet, it can't survive in the woods. Since you know what it is, that makes you the leading expert on it. Take good care of it."

"Oh, bull-"

Tillock cut the stocky corporal off. "And if you need anything for it, just ask the quartermaster. I'll make sure he's informed."

"A basket to punt the thing into, you mean?"

Lieutenant Landzaat, who had been watching the proceedings with considerable amusement called to him. "By the way, I'm officially promoting that pig to recruit. Striking a comrade is a court-martial offence you know."

"And if we ever run low on rations?" Cheslock wilted before the combined glares of Edel and Landzaat. He relented with poor grace. "All right, all right! I'm still calling the thing exactly what it is though. Ham."

Edel turned indifferently back to the supplies. "Whatever you please."

Cheslock turned back to the porcavian, muttering darkly as he did so. "You just wait 'till the sergeant turns his back, bacon." The woods echoed with the laughter of the other men as he turned back to his meal.


	12. Side Chapter: Politician's War

_Montigny - April 24, 1836_

"Twelve merchant vessels lost in the last month, my lords!" Edward Townshend articulated vehemently. "This is completely unacceptable!"

The politician was currently seated in a small but opulent room on the second floor of the Royal Hotel, along with twelve of the more prominent members of the Federation Parliament. Independence Hall was where Parliament met and argued, but this little room was where Federation policy was made. Only a handful knew of its existence, but those who did mattered.

"There is nothing to be done," one of his colleagues said wearily. "There is no _proof_ that it was anything other than what the Empire stated it to be."

"Pirates?" Townshend asked scathingly. "Do you really believe that nonsense? Twelve merchant vessels, all taken in Imperial waters, with no other incidents elsewhere, is no simple coincidence!"

"Well what do you suggest we do?" another delegate piped up. "We are in no fit state to fight. The army is still reorganizing, and the people will not be willing to support military action for the sake of twelve vessels."

Townshend groaned in exasperation. "Well, do you suggest we do nothing at all then? Just let the Imperials keep on taking our ships for their own? The value of the goods taken so far comes to little over a hundred thousand pounds. If this trend continues, shipping companies are going to refuse to ship goods through Imperial waters. We'll have to ship them south of Europa, a delay of some sixteen thousand kilometers." He paused for a moment. "This could end up costing Federation merchants a fortune, gentlemen. A fortune!"

A portly man from Remesal stood up. "I must agree with Lord Townshend. This situation is intolerable."

Townshend glanced up in pleased surprise. The other politician was probably only concerned with lining his own pockets, but...

"Very well, what shall we do about it then?" the second delegate said. "I once again stress the necessity of avoiding a war with the Empire."

Townshend smiled. Things were going according to plan. "According to the Atlantic Accords we and the Empire signed last year, nations have the right to use 'whatever force deemed necessary' to halt a pirate menace. Thus, we have the legal right to move a Federal fleet into Imperial waters to escort our shipping." He looked down at a small map spread on a table. "I thus would appreciate it if you gentlemen would support me when I propose moving the Eastern Atlantic Fleet toward Imperial territory."

The other men murmured approvingly. "A good plan," the portly man said. "I shall convince my associates to vote likewise."

As the last of the members finally nodded their agreement, Townshend raised a hand. "One final problem for us to address. This is not an issue for Parliament, but a vital one none the same." He picked up a newspaper from where it was lying on the arm of his chair. "The Imperials appear to have inflicted a defeat upon the Gallian rebels a few days ago. What remains of the rebel army is now fleeing back toward Randgriz."

"We are all aware of this my lord," a man said. "What bearing does it have? None of us expected the Gallian resistance to last more than a few months anyway."

"It has considerable bearing," Townshend shot back. "Putting this rebellion down is tying up the better part of the Imperial Army, giving our own forces time to regroup with no fear of being attacked again."

"I see. You recommend aiding the Gallians then."

"I do," Townshend affirmed. "The longer the Imperial Army is occupied, the more chance we have to build our own armed forces back up." He slashed a line across the map spread on the wall. "In addition, the cover provided by our fleet will allow us to make some… _discreet_ shipments to Randgriz and Fouzen."

The other diplomat clapped slowly. "Bravo, Mr. Townshend, bravo. You seem to have all the answers for the Imperial problem. Before we put it to a vote however, just what will these 'shipments' contain?"

Townshend picked up a file he had picked up at the Ministry of Defense the day before and leafed through it. "As we are in the midst of reequipping the Federal Army with a new design, the machinery and dies for the old lever-action repeaters are being sold off for scrap. We could divert their journey to Gallia, and give the rebels some extra firepower."

The politico considered. "That is tantamount to an arms shipment. How are we going to explain it if the Imperials ask?"

Edward Townshend actually winked. "Ah, but there isn't anything to explain. If a private purchase was made and shipped to Gallia by private individuals, there are no government records to show." He waited as the other delegates murmured and considered among themselves.

Finally, the spokesperson for the group turned back to him. "Very well. We shall see to it that the purchase is made."

Townshend smiled tightly. Good. His two controversial pieces of legislation were through. Perhaps his dream of controlling Parliament wasn't so farfetched after all. He thumbed to the next page in his notes. "Now, onto the subject of Kievan…"


	13. Victory and Defeat

_Vasel - April 28, 1836_

Private Fritz Klein marched along in the long column that was the leading element of the Imperial XXVII Corps. The young man whistled happily to himself as he walked, thinking of his mother and sister back home in the Empire. He had been drafted into His Majesty's service just a few months ago. There had been that fight a few days back, but the Corps remained mostly intact, ready for anything. Fritz turned to his friend who was marching next to him. "Hey, how long before we rest?"

His friend shrugged. "We're getting into Vasel, so I'd say the III Corps will pass us up for the assault as soon as we get to a place where we can get off the road."

Sure enough, after only a few more minutes, the column swung off the road onto a nearby farm. The men broke ranks to refill their canteens at a small well and do a quick spot of foraging before they would have to get back on the march. Fritz filled his canteen and then walked along a small side path, idly watching the III Corps march past. Almost involuntarily, his thoughts turned back to his home in the small town near the Empire's southern border. Was his mother getting along without him? Would his sister be enough to help her? Klein hoped that he would be promoted soon; a larger paycheck meant more help he could send back home.

His foot struck a small bump in the road. "Huh?" He looked down and saw a small Gallian-made pistol. Fritz grinned. This was his lucky day. He could show it off when he got back home. As he picked it up, its progress was arrested by a short piece of thread. His eyebrows lifted in confusion. Klein gave the piece a sharp tug to break the thread.

* * *

Edel and Wolffe whirled as a dull boom went off to the east. A couple of men flinched.

"Mmn. Well, that was sooner than I had expected." Cheslock said.

"So you were right," Edel said pensively. "A pistol's good bait."

The corporal nodded grimly. "Yup. Still be better to have the owner around, I'd think."

William Calvey ran up and saluted. Since the last battle, a few of the militia had joined up with the 147th under Tillock's watchful eye. "Sergeant Tillock reports that the skirmishers are engaging the Imperial column, but are falling back."

Edel nodded. He wouldn't have expected anything else. "Thank you Private." Edel turned back to Landzaat. "I'd suggest we begin our retreat as well sir."

"Very well, but let's bog down their advance a bit while we can." Landzaat wheeled his mount around and gestured to the men. "Alright, boys! Let's start moving."

The Imperials entered an empty Vasel, their steps confident. As they advanced through the streets, the occasional crack of a rifle from an entrenched survivor soon became the rattle of a man in every window and behind every wall. The easy advance quickly turned into a crawl, but the invaders came on. Cheslock fired from his window, the grenade's blue blast of flaming ragnite flinging bodies aside. It had been the same pattern for the past ten minutes. Shoot, watch the troops take cover momentarily, and then observe them attempting to advance the way their comrades had tried.

The grenadier poured ragnite into his launcher, peering across the street. "Sergeant Tillock! You got everyone yet?"

"No!"

"Well, damn. This is getting pretty boring!" On that statement, a 'lucky' round blew chips out of the window frame, throwing splinters into Cheslock's face. "Ham, we're changing position." The Corporal crept from the window and bolted down the stairs, nearing the door just as a gigantic Imperial dove headfirst through a nearby window. The soldier rapidly scrambled to his feet. Cheslock took a step back. "What the-" The Imp lunged at him with bayonet fixed.

Cheslock's launcher slipped from his hands as the big Imperial tackled him into a wall, knocking the wind out of his lungs. As the man drew back his rifle, Cheslock spat in his face and rolled away, narrowly avoiding the sharp blade. The corporal fumbled with his leather holster, drawing his pistol just as the other man recovered. The revolver cracked deafeningly as the bullet went wide and thudded into the far wall. The now very angry infantryman dropped his rifle and bodily threw Cheslock across the room. "Of all the big, stupi-" His words were abruptly cut off as the Imperial wrapped his fingers around the Corporal's throat, slamming him to the floor.

Cheslock's vision started to swim, but he could see the Imperial removing one massive palm to reach for the knife on his waist. His attacker's expression changed abruptly from triumphant to dumbfounded as his hand found empty air where the hilt had been. The knife itself floated over their heads - in Ham's mouth. Cheslock weakly motioned for the blade, and the Porcavian deposited it neatly in his outstretched hand. With a bloody grin, he thrust the blade into the Imperial's unprotected throat, kicking away the huge man as his opponent went limp. As he rose to his feet, he turned and nodded to Ham. "Guess you're not quite useless. Thanks, buddy."

"Moink!"

Cheslock dusted off his grenade launcher and slid out the door, hugging the wall as he crept into the next building. It was clear now that boring was a very good thing.

* * *

Edel Wagner was considerably annoyed. After having spent hours fighting house to house to give Vasel's citizens time to escape, he had found one that refused to be evacuated.

"Sir, you _must_ leave. The Imperials will be here any minute, and they _will_ treat you as an enemy."

The old man he was pleading with drew back further into the doorway. "What do you young people know? I built this house with my wife, and now I'll die in it. Just leave me alone now, young man."

Wolffe sighed in exasperation. "Our orders are to take everyone." He gestured at the line of refugees waiting to cross the Vasel Bridge to safety. "We can't leave you here by yourself sir."

Tillock followed the man into the house as he retreated. "Come along, sir." The sergeant gently pushed the protesting senior toward the doorway.

Edel jumped as an Imperial shell howled towards them and crashed into the house.

Tillock looked up in horror as the structure groaned, then began to fall inwards. "Look out sir!" The burly sergeant bodily shoved the old man clear of the doorway as the roof collapsed in on him. The structure folded inwards in a cloud of dust, leaving Edel and Wolffe staring in shock at the rubble.

Wolffe cursed and dropped to his knees as he began to dig frantically. "Hang on, James! We'll get you out!"

"Leave him." Edel's flat order interrupted the sergeant's mad scramble.

"Bullshit!" Wolffe stared, incredulous at the command.

The staff sergeant sighed and turned back to stare at the old man standing meekly in the road. "We don't have the time to get him out, even if he is alive. The Imperials will be here any minute." He waved, taking in the group of civilians huddled in the street. "Or do you suggest we sacrifice all these people to save one?"

The sharpshooter paced, torn between digging the wreckage for his friend and the cold necessity of retreat. "I'm not suggesting anything! We just gotta . . . _Damn_!"

"Gotta move." Edel grabbed Wolffe by the collar and pushed him toward the small band of refugees. "We're taking them to the bridge. March."

"Yeah, they're set." Cheslock handed the field glasses to Edel. "The engineers have covered all the load bearing points, and the blast should tear up a few of 'em as they cross over. We just gotta wait now."

In mere minutes, the leading elements of the III Corps had cleared the last of the houses and were sprinting towards the bridge. As Edel watched, the Gallian engineers lit the fuses and hastily scrambled away.

The Imperials reached the bridge and began to cross.

"Come on!" Wolffe said. "Hurry it up!"

Halfway over. "Is that fuse even live?" Cheslock asked, retrieving the glasses from Edel.

Fifty feet. Then twenty. The first charge seemed insufficient to destroy such a large bridge as it went off with a quiet thump.

"Eh?" Lieutenant Landzaat stared over at the bridge. "Isn't it-"

The main charge went off with a roar, blasting a gaping hole in the bridge's columns and shattering every window that overlooked the riverbank. The bridge creaked and then slowly toppled over into the water, dashing the Imperials on it into the Vasel.

Cheslock lit a cigar. "I don't like it, but it ain't a total defeat."

Wolffe sat down heavily on the riverbank. "We lost Tillock though." He laughed. "Funny. I always figured that if anyone survived the war, it would've been him." He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a match, puffing it before taking a deep drag.

Edel stomped over and snatched the cigarette from his mouth. "These things are nasty as hell," he said, viciously executing it under his boot heel. "If you want to feel bad, you can do it without one."

"But-" Wolffe stopped in mid protest. "I see." After this sort of battle, a smoke didn't really help. The men stared in silence at the city burning across the river.

* * *

**Author's Note: **A most sincere apology to all the people that actually keep up with this fiction. This story has been on a short hiatus due to one of the authors being unavailable to write. However, that has now changed, and updates will be posted more regularly from now on.


	14. Having Fun?

_Randgriz-May 14, 1836_

"When's the last time you went into town, Sergeant?" Lieutenant Landzaat asked.

"The 147th has not yet been cleared for leave," Edel said stiffly. "However, I am aware that Sergeant Wolffe and some other non-commissioned officers have done so, sir."

Landzaat smiled. "Well, you'll be glad to know that the regimental commanders have been authorized to send small groups into the city for leave. Go have a good time for once, Sergeant."

"Sir." Edel saluted. This really wasn't his idea of fun, but. . . "I appreciate it sir."

That night, Wolffe and Cheslock were sneaking out of the palisade in civilian clothes when Edel loomed up behind them. "Where do you think _you_ are going?"

Wolffe whirled. "Oh, Edel? We were just . . . ah . . ."

Cheslock cut in. "Going for a walk."

Edel smiled hugely. "Well, have a nice time. I'm going into Randgriz, and I think I'll take a look at all the popular bars and hotels. I won't see you there then?"

The duo's sickly smiles morphed into identical horrified grimaces.

Wolffe stuttered for a moment. "B-but Edel, you're not allowed to go! The 147th isn't on leave!"

The staff sergeant waved a pass under his nose. "Oh? I am."

The sharpshooter exchanged a despairing glance with Cheslock. "I'll see you later then."

"Oh, come on," Edel said, finally taking pity on the hapless pair. "You have to show me where the best bar in town is. I haven't been, after all."

The two under-officers exchanged disbelieving grins as the staff sergeant propelled them in the direction of Randgriz.

Edel sat on a bar stool, looking at the menu scrawled on the board above the bar.

"Come on, Edel!" Wolffe laughed. "Order a drink for once!"

"You haven't lived 'til you've gotten a hangover that made you wish you had died!" Cheslock added.

Wagner considered. The staff sergeant hardly ever went on leave, and so had a considerable amount of back-pay on his person. He sighed. "Very well. Bartender!" he called.

"What can I get you Sergeant?" the man asked.

"Yes . . . Ah, do you have any wine?"

Cheslock and Wolffe had already ordered a round of the house lager and were swigging it down.

"Erm..." the bartender said uncomfortably. "We have . . . this." He took a slender bottle of clear liquor, scrutinizing the label.

Edel surveyed the object in the bartender's hands for a long moment. "Isn't that vinegar?"

"Err..."

"Just give me what they're having," he sighed.

"Right-o sir," the relieved man said.

By the time Edel got his drink, the others were already in a poker game at a nearby table. "You know gambling is against regulations. . ." he remarked threateningly as the two looked up. ". . . Deal me in," he said, pulling back a chair.

Wolffe's eyebrows crept toward his hairline. He had never seen Edel act so . . . _normal_ before.

Edel picked up his cards. An instant later, his face lost all trace of expression. "I'll raise you another forty ducats," he said, pushing bills into the center of the table.

"Uhhhh . . . No. I fold." Cheslock tossed down his cards and waved for another pint glass. "Better miss on some potential fun than be cleaned out first round."

"What's the matter Cheslock? Scared?" Wolffe laughed.

An hour later, Edel sat at the table with the contents of everyone else's pockets stacked in front of him. Not bad for an hour's work. He waved a finger under Wolffe's horrified gaze. "I hope you learned something about gambling, sergeant," he said as he raked the pot into his pockets.

"What did I tell you guys? Cleaned out, down to your socks!" Cheslock guffawed.

Wolffe stood up. "Well, I'm broke, so I guess I'll head back . . . Unless someone is willing to cover another round."

"Not a chance," Edel replied flatly.

The sharpshooter paused as a commotion broke out near the counter.

"Get your stinking darkie hair out of my face!" a very drunk man shouted as he shoved a Darcsen serving maid. Glasses shattered, throwing their contents over the floor. "Look at what you gone and did now, you litt-"

"Sir!" the bartender said, waving his arms. "She's an employee of mine. Apologies if yo-"

"What sort of bar has dark-hairs serving drinks? They'll-"

"Hey!" the man turned just as Wolffe smashed him into the bar.

"Wolffe!" Edel barked. "Stand down!"

The sharpshooter looked over as a half-dozen of the man's friends got up. "Let's get that Darcsen-lover!"

"Stand down my ass, Sarge!" Cheslock jumped from his seat, slipping on a set of brass knuckles.

A nearby table of sergeants waded into the fray as they saw two of their own fighting.

"Stop!" Edel howled. "Will all of you-" He stopped as the man Wolffe had punched stood up unsteadily and reached for a revolver. He caught the man's hand, keeping the pistol in the holster.

"You can't do that!" the man yelled.

"Says who?" Edel said coldly as he broke the man's wrist with a deft twist.

The would-be gunman screamed in pain and outrage. He doubled over abruptly as the sergeant kicked him in the crotch. Edel kicked him again in the face as he went down. He had only a few seconds to admire his handiwork before the room was flooded with soldiers from the Royal Guard, traditional guardians of Randgriz, shouting and lashing out with rifle butts and truncheons.

Edel watched as Wolffe struggled in the iron grip of two soldiers who had him under the armpits as they were marched back to camp and deposited before Lieutenant Landzaat.

After dressing the pair down and dismissing them, he turned to Edel. "This is not exactly what I had in mind when I told you to enjoy yourself, sergeant."

"Apologies sir," Edel said with a salute. "It won't happen again."

Landzaat laughed. "If it was serious enough got you to get into a fight, it must've been quite something. You have to tell me about it someday. Dismissed."

Edel stared in bemusement as his superior walked away, laughing as he said something that sounded distinctly like, "There's hope for him yet."


	15. Late Report

_Randgriz- May 15, 1836_

Colonel Thomas Moore walked briskly down the length of the Gallian fortifications on the bank of the Vasel. Sentries and passing soldiers stiffened quickly to attention. It was foolish to trifle with a colonel of the Royal Guard at any time, especially Moore, who was known to be one of the finest blades to have ever walked the halls of the Federal officer's academy in Appledore.

"His Highness is quite interested in the state of our defenses here," he remarked to the captain at his heels.

"They're coming along well sir. The Imperial attack a couple of weeks ago damaged them a little, but I'm sure they'll protect His Highness well, sir," the captain said, tearing off the third salute in as many minutes.

Moore glanced in amusement at the young officer, who had been the very image of boyish enthusiasm upon learning that Moore would be personally inspecting his sector of the river. "You don't need to salute _quite_ that much Captain," he said with a laugh. "Relax. I'm only here to make a report to His Highness. I'm sure you're doing a fine job."

The officer swelled with pride. "Thank you, sir!" he exclaimed . . . with another salute.

The colonel paused as they reached a sentry post. "Give me that glass, soldier," he said, extending a gloved hand.

"Sir."

He extended the brass telescope, scanning the Imperial side of the river. "What are those cannon, Captain?" he asked, pointing to a battery on the opposite bank.

"Oh, those. The Imperials placed them there a few days ago," remarked the officer, who had also deployed his own spyglass. "I ordered counterbattery fire on the guns, but we were running short on powder, so…" The captain extended his hands helplessly.

"I see." Moore continued to scan the treeline, pausing every time he spotted a battery. "There's over fifty guns on that bank there, Captain. They might be building up here. I'll see to it that you get the powder you need."

"Thank you, sir," the man said gratefully. He hesitated. "But. . . General Damon expects the buildup further up the river. He has seen significant troop movement there sir."

"I've been there too. There were about thirty guns visible there." The colonel paused. "That means one of the two is a diversion. The Imps don't have enough men to run two assaults at the same time." He stopped to clap the man on the shoulder. "At any rate, you're doing a fine job. I'll get you that powder." He was turning to go when a warning shout arrested his movement.

"Cannon fire!"

Imperial shells howled in, blasting the Gallian works in an inferno of smoke and flame. Moore staggered in the trench, and then checked his ears to see if they were bleeding. They weren't. He wondered why.

"Come on men! Rally!" the captain shouted, struggling to his feet and rushing down the trench toward his own guns. "Let's-" The man's exhortation was abruptly cut off as a fresh storm of metal came crashing down; a cannonball had neatly clipped off the top of his head.

"Shit!" Moore cursed with little imagination but with great feeling. He dove down flat as a new barrage thundered in. _The Imperials are trying to break through… Too many shells for a diversion. _The colonel peered over the top of the trench to peek across the river. Sure enough, Imperial soldiers were loading themselves onto boats and beginning to row across the Vasel. Getting to his feet, he ran doubled-over towards the dead captain's battery.

"Can we get some fire on those boats?" he shouted to the thickset battery chief.

"On it now, sir!" the other man yelled after seeing Moore's shoulder straps. He turned as the field pieces began sighting on the river. "Fire!"

Moore cheered with the artillerymen as two boats disappeared in a shower of water and splinters.

"Load your pieces, damn you!" the chief screamed. As the men hurried to obey, Moore turned his gaze back toward the Imperial side of the river. His eyes widened.

"Incoming!" He threw himself to the dirt again as the counterbattery began. If this wasn't the end of the world, you could see it from here. A blast picked him up and threw him back into the far wall of the trench, bringing the taste of blood. The world roared and then turned deadly quiet as the hammering continued. He watched as a caisson exploded in a silent fireball, throwing one of the four-ton cannon contemptuously aside.

"O-ers -ir?" The query came from one of the guardsmen who had come down from Randgriz with him.

"What?" Moore foolishly wondered for a moment if the guard had forgotten how to talk.

The man placed his mouth next to Moore's ear and screamed. "Orders sir?"

"Oh. Yes." Moore got slowly to his feet. Wondering if his hearing was still affected, he looked about wonderingly. Then he realized that the silence wasn't just him; the Imperial barrage had stopped completely.

After looking over the top of the now splintered and blackened earthworks, he quickly wished he hadn't. The Imperial boats were over the river, the first of them vomiting blocks of brown-clad infantry on to the bank.

"Fire!"

Moore turned. A young lieutenant, probably the dead captain's aide, was on top of the earthen ramparts, waving his sword over his head. Some soldiers obeyed, throwing a ragged volley at the oncoming Imperials. However, most of the men stayed well out of sight, too scared or rattled to fight.

"Valkyrur save us!" a nearby sergeant cried despairingly. "They've got artillery over the river!"

Moore paled. With the men staying inside the works, artillery this close could punch a hole in the Gallian fortifications in a matter of minutes.

"Orders sir?" The guardsmen's query brought the colonel out of his reverie.

"Form up the Guard here. Be ready to move on my command."

"Yes, sir!"

The colonel ran toward the lieutenant, who had since jumped back to safety. "Lieutenant, we have to take those guns and push the Imps back over the river. If we don't, they'll roll on through here and then there's no stopping them until Randgriz."

"T-take the guns sir?" the youngster stammered. "I d-don't know about that…"

"Come on, man! If the Imperials break through here, they've won the war!" Moore shook the junior officer impatiently. "Do you want everything we've done till now to be for nothing?"

The lieutenant's eyes refocused abruptly. "You're right, sir." He strode off down the trench. "All right, men! We're going to take those guns and throw those Imps back! Form up!"

His exhortation was met with blank stares and little actual activity. Moore looked back at his own men; gritted his teeth. He yanked his sword clear of its sheath, waving it. "Come on, men! We're going to the guns! Fix bayonets!" The guardsmen goggled at the colonel in disbelief, but all obeyed. By this point, the Guard was as much of a professional fighting force as any the Empire had to offer.

The officer sighed heavily as he looked about. The men he had brought with him only came to about fifty men; a paltry number compared to the hundreds already on the banks. This was probably a suicide mission, but Moore's strong sense of duty would not allow him to reject it.

Before he could actually think about what he was doing, he quickly clambered over the front of the ramparts. "Come on boys! Follow me!" With a shout, the men followed, charging toward the Imperial lines.

Despite the lack of support from the regulars, the Guard gave a fierce charge, accurate rifle fire scything down the Imperials that tried to halt their advance. Mid-reload, the opposing artillery could not put down the murderous canister so suited to this range. Within seconds, the lines met, and brutal hand to hand combat broke out mere feet from the guns.

Moore deftly sidestepped an Imperial rifleman attempting to disembowel him with his bayonet, pulling the rifle past him and slamming three feet of steel into the man's gut. The colonel quickly pulled his rapier from the man's limp form and looked about for a new target.

He did not have to wait long. A plucky artillery sergeant grappled for the short sword at his own waist, aiming a vertical chop at Moore's head. The Gallian managed a lucky riposte, which bought him the time he needed to properly face the other man. The man hissed what was presumably a curse in his mother tongue; Moore knew no more Imperial wordsthan the average housecat.

Moore's ruminations on feline knowledge of the Imperial language were cut short as the sergeant rushed him with a blood-curdling shriek. The colonel's long rapier flicked out almost disdainfully, ripping the weapon from the man's hands and puncturing his throat in one smooth movement.

The Imperial gurgled for a moment, clutching at the fountain of scarlet, and then toppled like a marionette with cut strings.

With a huzzah, the regulars cleared the works and came scrambling down the slope to the Guard's aid; apparently inspired by the guardsmen's example.

Moore turned back to the guns, making sure they were in fact out of action. A lone artilleryman, crawling on all fours and leaking like a bloody colander, dragged his body over to a nearby lanyard and pulled it an instant before the Gallian put a bullet in his brain.

It was too late; the damage was done. Men and pieces of men slid down the incline, painting the riverbank red. Moore swore briefly before tuning his attention back to the battle. Thankfully, with the arrival of the regulars, the Imperials were cleared off the bank in short order, with the boats still on the river beating a hasty retreat.

The Royal Guard colonel sat down abruptly on the bank and wryly surveyed the gore spattered on his uniform. _I hope His Highness doesn't mind his report being a little late..._

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thanks, as always, to Markal and chiemiangel for the beta. In addition, if there are actually any of you in the ghost-reader population that actually _like_ this story, please leave a review. It helps a lot, and helps reassure us that this isn't just something we would be better off not doing. Thanks.


	16. A Tight Spot

_Rusgren Pass - May 24, 1836_

Kasu worked his neck a little to work the kinks out of it. Ever since Gatz had finally worked the kinks out of his project, he seemed determined to put some in Kasu's joints by working around the clock to make more.

"Hey, Rasai!" He waved to a Darcsen girl coming into the tunnel. "Have you seen Lin anywhere?"

The girl simply shook her head and held out a platter of sandwiches; she almost never talked.

Gatz climbed out from under a mounting he was coaxing into place with a wrench. "Well, she had some new scheme for the mechanism," he mumbled, his mouth already full of bread and meat. "Mmm-mm-mmph"

"Excuse me?" Kasu laughed, reaching for his own.

The engineer swallowed heroically. "She's probably working on it." He opened his mouth for another huge bite; he was rudely interrupted as drums began to pound out the long roll.

Rasai cocked her head in puzzlement. Gatz would have answered Rasai's silent question, if not for the lump of bread lodged in his throat.

Ignoring his choking friend, Kasu ran for the entrance of the tunnel, calling back over his shoulder. "It's the call to arms."

Falling into line with the rest of the 57th Auxiliary, he anxiously clutched his rifle as he waited for an announcement. As Gatz caught up and came to attention himself, Major Weber emerged from his tent, flanked by a pair of scouts.

"I am afraid I have some rather grim news, men," the officer said flatly as he came to a halt before them. "Our scouts have reported a large Imperial column currently heading this way. At their current rate, they'll arrive in eleven days."

"Eleven days from now, sir?" Sergeant Major Kaza asked.

"No. Eleven days from when the scouts last saw them early yesterday."

"What's their strength?" Gatz inquired.

The major paused for a moment. "I'd say . . . about two thousand men. They're bringing the XIII Battalion, IV Corps, with about a thousand, and a good chunk of . . . II Brigade, I Corps.

Kasu paled, along with about half the regiment. Not only were they outnumbered four to one, but the II Cavalry Brigade was the cream of the Imperial army, along with the rest of the I Corps.

"What? An Imperial Guard unit?" Gatz howled.

Mosby answered from his position behind the major. "Afraid so, corporal. Them black uniforms the I Corps wear stand out good." The scout captain shook his head despairingly.

There was a long silence. Kaza was the first to recover. "Orders sir?" he asked quietly.

"Orders are to prepare for their attack. Inventory the ammunition, dig entrenchments and requisition every weapon in storage. I want every man holding a trapdoor rifle by tomorrow, sergeant."

Kaza paused. Despite being assigned to guard a supply depot, army logistics had balked at supplying Darcsens with anything more advanced than muzzle-loaders that had been obsolete ten years ago. "Sir, regulations-"

Weber cut him off. "Regulations be hanged. If the Imperials sack this base and kill all of us, what sort of rifles they burn won't mean a damn."

"Sir." The sergeant major turned and began barking orders. "Corporal Gatz, I want you to head for the armory and start breaking out the rifles. Every man here already knows how to use one; just hand them out. Sergeant Kasu, take as many men as you need and start digging us some fortifications. We already have the ones around the camp; expand out and start digging more. The more depth, the better. Sergeant Aiden, supervise the placement of your guns in and around the camp, Corporal Zeyd-"

* * *

_June 1, 1836_

Gatz jerked awake as Kasu sat down next to him at the table. Between trying to re-equip five hundred men with new weapons in just a week and cramming in a final mad assembly on his project, the engineer was getting hardly any sleep.

"Were you working late last night too?" his friend asked worriedly. As Gatz nodded sleepily, Kasu launched into what Gatz liked to call his "obsession mode".

"Gatz, if you keep working yourself like that, you're not going to be worth anything when we have to fight," Kasu said.

"Relax mother," Gatz said around a yawn. "I can handle it. Besides, if it can help our odds at all..."

"Yes, but how much progress have you really made?" the sergeant demanded. "Working alone at night, you're not going to be able to finish anything." He paused for a moment. "The entrenchments nearly done, the men can finish them without me. If I could get some of the girls..." He paused sharply. "How many do you think we can make with the parts on hand?"

Gatz thought for a moment. "Counting the ones we already have, maybe about six?"

"And how long would those take to assemble if we all helped?"

A few more sums. "Three days."

Kasu hissed a curse. "That's too long. Mosby thinks they'll be here in a couple of days at most."

Gatz shrugged. "That's the absolute fastest; there's no way to cut it down anymore."

Kasu considered. "If you think these will really do something big, we can take it to the Major. Maybe he could stall them for a day or two."

Gatz almost laughed in his face. "Major Weber, agreeing to something so far-fetched? He's so careful with his men, it's a wonder he's actually going to stand and fight. If we tell him-"

"Tell me what, Corporal?"

* * *

_Randgriz - June 1, 1836_

Cheslock held a match to his cigar, puffing it for a second before blowing out a stream of smoke. "Kinda weird just sitting here in this huge group, huh?" A large group of reinforcements had arrived the day before, more than doubling the number of underofficers in the sergeant's mess. In addition, many of the old hands had been promoted, including a certain _Sergeant _Cheslock, much to his chagrin.

Wolffe, or now Staff Sergeant Wolffe to the privates, looked up from his postcards of scantily clad women to respond. "It is odd. They've given us so many reinforcements that we're actually nearly at full strength for once; the other regiments don't have nearly as much."

"I'd say we're going to move, either toward the riverbank or into the city. It's the only explanation," newly-minted First Sergeant Wagner remarked, pausing to give Wolffe's collection a black look.

"To try and break the grand stalemate of the war, I suppose?" Corporal Lee interjected. A new addition to the sergeant's mess, the ex-cavalryman had been rolled into the 147th after his unit had been shattered in the early days of the war.

"Hmm. With just one regiment?" Sergeant Ustinov, another new arrival, laughed. "I don't think so Joe."

He began to deal out some cards. "Hey, Charles! I know you're dead broke, so I'll take those as five ducats a piece," he said, pointing at the pictures.

"You're on," Wolffe said as he grabbed up his hand.

Cheslock tossed in a couple of coins. "Maybe one round. You want in, Sarge?"

Sergeant Wagner waved away the proffered cards, but otherwise did not object to the gambling. Sergeant Cheslock grinned. "Something wrong?" the other man asked quizzically.

"The game is actually lookin' fair this time, that's all." The grenadier replied, noting that the sergeant had been acting remarkably like an actual human being since their leave time in Randgriz.

The noncommissioned officers quickly shoved the cards under the table as Landzaat walked in. The new regimental commander had gone from Lieutenant to Lieutenant Colonel in one fell swoop, as most of the senior officers in the regiment had been killed in the disaster at Naggiar.

He paused a moment before addressing the assembled men. "I have just come from the officer's mess. New orders. We're moving out for Rusgren Pass. Apparently the garrison there has reported a large body of Imperial troops approaching. We are to reinforce them."

Sergeant Wagner's hand shot up. Landzaat nodded. "Go ahead, First Sergeant."

"What sort of resistance should we expect sir?"

"The top says that we should expect about a thousand men, no real difficulties." The sergeant nodded, satisfied. "Any other questions? No? Then get your men together. We march in three hours."

Mostly due to the first sergeant's frightening efficiency, the regiment was assembled and ready to move in little more than two hours, sweating under full packs and woolen uniforms. Cheslock shook his head in quiet amazement, despite having seen it dozens of times before.

Colonel Landzaat rode out onto the parade ground laughing. "So Sergeant Wagner, you make me look late an hour early again, hmm?"

"Apologies sir. Though if I may say so sir, it's good practice for meeting any young ladies."

Cheslock stared in disbelief along with the other original members of Company F. Sergeant Wagner making a joke in full view of a regiment?

Landzaat quirked an eyebrow. "Duly noted," he said dryly. He wheeled his horse around. "147th, forward march!" His shout was quickly picked up by various underofficers and reinforced by the steady drumbeat from Private Neumann and a handful of other drummer boys.

As the column moved off, throwing up a plume of dust, Cheslock noted one individual already straggling behind his company. "Regard, it is well within my authority to shoot your lazy ass again!" The private leapt forward as if stung, spurred on by the shouts of laughter around him.


	17. Advance and Retreat

_Rusgren Pass - June 3, 1836_

Brevet Lieutenant Colonel Ehren Gunther trotted down the length of Rusgren Pass at the head of the II Imperial Cavalry. He had received the brevet promotion when he had been assigned to this foray to find a way around the Gallian lines, if for no other reason than the fact that having an infantry battalion outrank an Imperial Guard detachment in officer seniority did not sit well with the Emperor.

Lieutenant Colonel Zeichmeister of the XIII Battalion rode up to Gunther. "Good day to you sir," he said with a salute

"And to you sir," Gunther said, returning it gravely.

"I would like to speak to you about allowing the XIII to lead the assault," Zeichmeister said. "Since the II Cavalry already has its share of laurels, I was wondering if you'd be so kind?"

Gunther surveyed the other man critically. He had little use for glory hounds, but who led the assault meant little to him. "Very well, _Oberstleutnant_," he said. "The II shall pull to the side and allow you to pass."

The other man's face lit up. "Thank you sir!" he said ecstatically. "You are most gracious!" With another salute, he turned his horse and galloped away, daylight showing between the seat of his breeches and the horse with every bounce.

Staff Sergeant Czherny rode up to Gunther, giggling like a schoolgirl. "He's not exactly the pride of the Army, is he sir?"

Ehren allowed himself a small smile. "He's not a part of the cavalry, _Feldwebel_," he said.

"Yes, but we're the II Cavalry. The cavalry division of the Imperial Guards," Czherny said, still laughing. "Next to our boys, he looks even stupider than he normally would."

"Alright, that's enough Czherny," Gunther said sternly. "Now, go tell our men to pull off the road and let the infantry pass us. According to the scouts, there was a force just an hour or so in front of us. If _Herr _Zeichmeister wishes to lead the assault, he shall."

"Sir!" With a snapped salute, the underofficer galloped toward the head of the column, standing in the stirrups and waving at the infantry he passed.

Smiling, Gunther watched the rotation take place. _Why is it that all of my noncomissioned officers are clowns? _Sergeant Major Schmidt had not come along, electing to stay with Colonel Franz and the rest of the II, but it seemed that the cavalry officer would not be spared his antics.

Riding up to Zeichmeister and the XIII's color party as the advance resumed, Gunther pulled out his carbine and laid it across his lap. No need to be unprepared just because he would not be in the assault.

Rounding a bend in the pass, the Gallian unit came into view. Gunther reached for his field glasses, surveying the unit. About five hundred men. Not too much of a problem but. . . He paused. Beside him, the other commander dropped his binoculars with a cry of outrage. Pointing at the men arrayed before them, he shouted furiously to his men. "Do you know what those are, men? Those are _Darcsen _troops!"

Some of the infantry paused to fix their bayonets as they heard. Seeing Darcsens in arms had created an atmosphere of almost palpable fury in among the men. Gunther saluted as he addressed Zeichmeister. "Good luck to you sir," he said.

The infantry commander gritted his teeth as he answered. "I thank you sir. But I doubt we'll be needing it to clear out this filth."

Shaking his head, the cavalryman rode back to the waiting II Cavalry and wheeled to watch the battle. The XIII advanced rapidly across the field toward the Darcsen position, not bothering with skirmishers or flank anchoring. Gunther panned his glasses toward the waiting Darcsens, which deployed into a V-shaped line with the mouth of the V facing the oncoming Imperials.

Gunther's brow creased slightly. The Darcsens had deployed themselves with quiet efficiency, with no fuss or wasted movements. In fact, Gunther had rarely seen such smooth maneuvering outside of a parade ground. He quickly dismissed the thought. Fighting after all, was a different game than marching prettily. Horses could be taught to look pretty on parade.

On the other hand, it had been a Darcsen unit that had broken into his lines at Naggiar. . . His thoughts were quickly cut short as the leading elements of the XIII began to fire. The range was still long, and Gunther would have ordered his men to hold their fire until they were closer, but their opponents were just a lot of Darcsens after all.

The Gallians at least had the discipline to hold their fire until the Imperials closed the distance. When they unleashed it, the report came as a simultaneous blast, with almost no variation in the individual shots. The Imperial advance stopped as if it had run into a solid wall, men toppling like ninepins, their screams barely audible at this distance.

As the XIII regrouped and hurled themselves at the line once more, the Darcsens reloaded and fired smartly to match.

Gunther snarled a curse. Of course. It was obvious. The V allowed the Gallians to put enfilading fire on the advancing Imperials without fear of being flanked due to the narrow pass. Meanwhile the Imperials were advancing recklessly into the crossfire from both legs of the V, without trying to concentrate or use artillery support.

"Feldwebel Czherny!"

"Sir," the man said from his shoulder.

"_Oberstleutnant_ Zeichmeister's glory be damned. If these Darcsens are so cursed smart fighting infantry, let's show them the _Schwerpunkt_."

"_Jawohl!_"

As the men gathered, Gunther did some mental plotting. The V was clever, but it also strung the men out into a longer line, making any one part of it thinner. If he concentrated the bulk of his force on a small part of the line, Ehren thought he could get through with minimal losses. The cavalry could probably close the distance before losses became too heavy, and smash the line open, tearing a hole for the infantry to go on through.

"II Cavalry is ready sir," Czherny said with a salute.

"Very well. Use your sabers for this one. We want to get to that line as fast as we can."

"Yes sir," the man said, flashing a grin. "If I may say so sir, it's the first time I've used the damn thing in a real fight."

The lieutenant colonel turned to face the troopers. "Bugler, blow _Charge_."

Yanking the saber out of its scabbard, Gunther wheeled his horse around and galloped toward the Gallians at the head of his men.

To their credit, the Darcsens stood their ground coolly as any veterans, firing at the cavalry boring down on them. As they impacted the Gallian lines, Gunther hacked and slashed at anything wearing a blue uniform like a demon, hitting one hanging on to his leg with the saber's pommel. Then they were through, on the far side of the Darcsen's line, and into their rear.

Brave the Gallians were, but fighting an infantry assault from the front and cavalry from the rear proved too much, and all resistance quickly collapsed. The Darcsens withdrew stubbornly, firing Parthian shots as they went. The isolated groups fought to the last man, asking no quarter and giving none.

Gunther dismounted and walked slowly over to the Gallian colors lying in the dirt. 57th Auxiliary. Odd. That was the same unit that they had fought at Naggiar. Apparently some of it was still around. He bent over and jerked it out of the dead ensign's hands.

"_Feldwebel!_"

Staff Sergeant Czherny rode up. "Whew! Those Darcsens fight like mad bastards, that's for sure. What can I do for you sir?"

Gunther held out the colors. "Put this with our other captured flags."

The underofficer looked at him quizzically. "But sir. It's a _Darcsen _flag. They're not a real unit."

"Are you trying to say they didn't fight like a real unit?"

Czherny paused for a moment. "I see your point sir. I'll see to it," he said, taking the flag.

Gunther looked about until he spotted the XIII's commander. "_Oberstleutnant _Zeichmeister!" he shouted, waving. The man's shoulders stiffened, but he did not otherwise acknowledge Gunther's hail. Shaking his head, Gunther looked about the battlefield. Whatever else had happened that day, the Darcsens had bought themselves a day or two's respite as the Imperials regrouped.


	18. Walk in Hell

**Author's Note: **To all of our small group of readers, thank you for being so patient. We realize it's been a long wait, but we have had some difficulties recently. Hopefully from this point on we'll be able to post more regularly. Who knows. Secondly, we are now in need of another beta reader, and we'd like one who's up to speed on the story. Anyone interested can send a PM to teyr25. Thanks again, and we hope you enjoy the chapter.

* * *

_Rusgren Pass - June 4, 1836_

Lieutenant Colonel Gunther was in a foul mood. Not only had the recent battle resulted in casualties amounting to about a third of the infantry and nearly a hundred of his own troopers, his scouts had reported to him that the delay from regrouping the XIII had allowed the Darcsens to create some very formidable defenses indeed.

His black thoughts were interrupted as Zeichmeister strode rapidly into his tent and saluted rigidly.

"Yes?" Gunther looked up from the map spread across his table.

"I wish to inform you that my men are formed up and ready to lead the assault on the Gallian works sir."

"Excuse me?" The cavalry officer really took his mind off the map for the first time since the other man had walked into the room. "You took some heavy losses yesterday sir. Our combined strength is now barely over 1,500 fit to fight. Moreover, our morale is very poor. Are you suggesting we throw away the rest of this force to drive the enemy out of his works?

"They're only Darcsens sir," the other man said tightly.

"Oh yes," Gunther said acrimoniously. "The Darcsens that killed _only_ about four hundred crack Imperial troops the other day. And that was a field battle. I'm sure they'll fight less efficiently since they're entrenched now."

Zeichmeister flushed. "I ask only to regain the XIII's honor-"

"By killing yourself and all your men?" Gunther wondered whether he had gone too far as the man took a pace forward and reached for the hilt of his sword. Then he visibly arrested the movement and subsided, shaking his head.

"You are in the right, sir. I was. . . careless with our previous battle. It shall not be repeated today." Zeichmeister paused. "You may stay here if you wish sir, but the XIII is going forward. Valkyrur be with you." With a nod, the man turned and ducked under the tent flap.

"Damn!" Gunther slammed a fist into the table. "Czherny!"

"Yes sir?" The sergeant ducked in from his post outside the tent. "Dismount about five hundred of our troopers and post orders for them to support Zeichmeister's attack. Keep the rest in reserve, but move them up too."

"Sir?" Czherny said, startled. "You said-"

"I know what I said. But Zeichmeister's going ahead come hell or high water, and he doesn't have enough of an edge to win, not if those Darcsens fight like they did yesterday. _Move_, damn you!"

"Sir!" With a hasty salute, the underofficer was off like a shot.

Gunther cursed under his breath as he pulled out his cavalry carbine and headed out for the mustering area. He hated fighting on foot, but it was the only way to synchronize with the infantry assault. "There's going to be hell to pay for this. . ."

Kasu peered over the top of the trench, scanning the pass ahead for any sign of Imperials. A crash-building course lasting the last few days had left him sleepy, but also tense. All the same, six of Gatz's contraptions had been built, and were now scattered throughout the 57th's lines.

"Any sign of 'em?" Gatz said, looking up from the floor of the trench where he had been sleeping.

"No. And what's more, the boys are nervous. We might have slowed them down a little, but there's still got to be at least a thousand of 'em out there."

"Assuming there are only a thousand, they have us about four to one," the engineer said after a quick mental calculation. "That's not so bad; we might lick 'em yet, 'specially with these," he said patting his creation sitting in the trench next to him.

"The sergeant said, 'at least'," Major Weber said, jumping down into the trench. "I agreed to this since it was the only way we might even possibly get out of this alive, but if it doesn't work, there's going to be a hell to pay."

Gatz leaned back against the trench after jumping to his feet at hearing the major's voice. "You have to stop doing that sir," he said reproachfully. "Besides, it'll work. I've tested these a dozen times each. As long as the men keep their act together, they'll multiply our rifle's effect by a hundred, guaranteed."

Kasu grunted as he turned back to the pass. "You sound like a salesman, Gatz. . . They're coming!"

* * *

Ehren Gunther slogged along in the ranks alongside five hundred dismounted cavalrymen, all of whom were rather chagrined at having to actually fight on foot.

"Give me a horse any day over this mess," Czherny complained, mopping at his brow. "How the infantry deal with it, I don't know." One of the XIII's riflemen turned and grinned at this remark. "Why, we've barely marched two miles and we're nearly there. You should see some of the long marches we have to do."

The cavalry sergeant shook his head in disbelief. "Unbelievable." He craned his head to watch the cavalry reserve riding along after them, with each trooper leading an extra horse or two. "Why couldn't we just ride there, then get off?"

Gunther sighed. "Because it would have taken too long to do it and we would have been vulnerable during the change." He had explained the reasons at least half a dozen times during the march, but various cavalrymen kept coming up and asking.

All conversation petered off as the head of the column wheeled around a bend in the pass, bringing the Darcsen works into view. The assault moved much more slowly than the disaster the day before; the infantry shook themselves out into a block the width of the canyon, then waited.

The four Imperial field pieces the force had brought along set up on the flanks of the block and began bombarding the Gallian emplacements. Gunther clicked his tongue between his teeth. Guns were in demand on the banks of the Vasel to keep the Gallian heads down, so the artillery section had been precariously undersized. He leaned over, whispering into Czherny's ear.

"At this rate, those Darcsens are going to be digging trenches faster than we can blow holes in them." Apparently Zeichmeister agreed; the guns fell silent after a mere half hour bombardment, and the infantry began probing forward.

"Alright boys, let's go!" Gunther shouted to his men, waving them after the infantry. The Imperials closed the gap, stopping at the 300 yard mark to loose a volley at the Gallian works.

Gunther brought his troopers into the line alongside the XIII, unleashing another wall of lead at the Darsen line. A round cracked as it sped past his ear; he ducked instinctively at the sound. He shuddered at the close call, working the carbine's action and firing a defiant shot at the Gallians to pay them back for the scare.

A minute later, it happened again, followed by another and another. Wondering if the Darcsens had noticed that he was an officer and had decided to try and eliminate him, an honor he could do without, he looked up and down the line. What he saw made him wish he hadn't. Men were starting to go down on all sides, their screams renting the air.

Men were starting to cower and edge backwards. If this continued, they would lose all trace of momentum, and with their disadvantage in firepower, that could spell doom for the Imperials. Before that, he had to figure out why this miserable outpost had such a huge advantage in volume of fire. "Keep moving!" he shouted, grabbing a nearby sergeant. After some painful minutes of enduring the punishing fire, the bugle rang out, signaling a charge. Despite the men's visible fear, every man obeyed and the line picked itself up, moving out at a steady clip.

However, they only made it about a third of the distance before Gallian bullets began to bite in earnest, and the assault ground to a halt. Gunther cursed, squinting at the enemy line. With a start, he noted that the flash and smoke from the galling fire was grouped around two or three points. "Volley guns?" the cavalryman muttered.

Czherny struggled over to him, shouting over the gun's endless roar. "We can't stay here sir! Whatever those things are, they're tearing us up!"

Gunther looked about just in time to see the XIII's color party go down within seconds of each other. He gritted his teeth. "Bugler, blow _Retreat_." The unfamiliar words tasted bad in his mouth, like meat that had gone foul. As the bugle sounded the mournful notes, the Darcsens cheered. The fire, if possible grew even hotter, cutting down more of Gunther's men from behind. The retreat turned into a rout, with some of Gunther's men throwing away their rifles to run the faster, to his eternal shame.

The cavalrymen slowed to a halt near the reserve, panting. Swinging himself onto his horse, Gunther took a quick head count. _Shit!_ At his best guess, he had little over six hundred and fifty troopers left, with maybe a handful of the XIII still on their feet. He considered.

"What are your orders sir?" Staff Sergeant Czherny asked, now also back in the saddle.

"We can't win this battle on foot," he muttered. "We just tried that with more men, and look what we got for it." He looked up abruptly. "_Feldwebel_, did you get a clear look at what those _things_ were?"

Czherny considered for a moment. "I can't say so, sir. Whatever they were, they've got at least as much range on them as our rifles, and they fire ungodly fast."

"Hmm. How fast would you say?"

"Maybe as fast a few dozen of these," the underofficer said, pointing at the lever-action rifle in the scabbard on his saddle.

"Mm-hm," Gunther thought, still ruminating. "And would you say that our men could close the distance fast enough for us to be past those guns and still have enough men to fight?"

Czherny paused and looked over the remains of the cavalry. "I suppose so, sir. If the guns have to reload, we might have a chance. Our losses would be heavy to say the least though."

"My thoughts exactly, _Feldwebel_. Back in the Empire, I was able to see a clever contraption the Imperial armorers had come up with. It was an artillery carriage with a few dozen rifle barrels on it." Gunther paused for thought. "I don't consider it inconceivable that the Gallians have come up with the same idea. If you fired one barrel at a time, you might get results like we saw out there."

"And if you have a dozen rifle barrels, you need to reload all of them!" Czherny exclaimed, warming to the idea. "If we can weather the first bit, we can probably get to those guns and take them like any artillery piece."

"Exactly." Gunther beamed at his sergeant's astuteness.

The underofficer wheeled his horse around and looked about for the musician. "Bugler, blow, _Mount!_"

The remnants of the II Imperial Cavalry swung as one man into the saddle, fired by the knowledge that there was a way to hit back at the withering fire.

"Charge!" Gunther spurred his mount forward with the rest of his men as the bugle sang out the notes. The cavalry officer looked up the line, watching the guidon bobbing in the ranks. Good, good. Everything was looking well. Men were starting to fall as the fire started afresh, but the II was closing the distance fast enough to reach the line with little difficulties. Gunther reached down and pulled out his cavalry saber, savagely anticipating the chaos he would wreak among the Darcsen soldiers.

Then a horse's leg broke, the sickening crack and scream audible above even the thunder of the Gallian guns. Gunther's head whipped around in time to see both horse and rider describe a neat half-cartwheel before falling to the side and being trampled by their oncoming fellows. The officer stared at the spot where the two had disappeared is disbelief. Cavalry horses were trained very demandingly; Gunther could not remember something like this happening during the entirety of his five years in the cavalry.

Before Ehren could wrap his head fully around how rare such accidents were, another horse fell as its leg gave out with a snap. More men and horses were going down the whole length of the line as the charge slowed, then stopped.

As the cavalry milled about in confusion, Gunther's eyes suddenly narrowed. Not a foot away from him, there was a small hole about a foot across, thinly covered with grass, terminating in a sharp wooden spike. Around him, troopers were cursing and screaming maledictions in the general direction of the enemy lines as they discovered the same thing.

If things had ended there, they would have been bad enough. Instead, they got worse. A pair of the fearsome repeaters the Darcsens had abruptly opened up on the cavalry's flanks, pouring enfilading fire into the confused mass.

Gunther cursed horribly as he fought his mount's head down and tried to reform the line. "Come on, lads! Charge 'em!" The charge proved to be a sad shadow of its former self as the cavalrymen swerved wildly to avoid fresh holes in the ground, grinding forward with none of their former dash and vigor.

Ehren heard his horse scream in agony as its foot plunged into another hole in the ground. He jumped clear of his mount, watching the attack fall to pieces around him.

This was like one of the scenes of hell painted by Yggdist priests in their temples. Men and horses screamed and fell and died all around as the pitiless fire went on and on.

Waving his sword in desperation, he ran forward, intending to rally his men or die trying.

Then he was on his knees himself, clutching at the hole in his leg and howling like a rabid wolf. He heard more than felt the impact of a hoof on the back of his head as his world flamed red, then black as the ground rushed up to meet him.

* * *

Kasu worked the crank handle on the mechanism in front of him as Gatz dumped cartridges into the hopper on the top to feed the gun's voracious appetite for ammunition. Multiple barrels spun about the central axle as they continued their endless roar.

In a sort of fascinated horror, Kasu watched the scene before him through the flame from the gun's muzzle. The Imperial cavalry that had seemed so invincible until now fell in droves, most dying before getting anywhere near the Gallian earthworks. Alongside the repeaters, dozens of rifles barked, adding to the storm of metal being poured on the horrified Imperials.

Finally, like the Darcsens before them, the Imperials found that some fires were too galling to bear. The pitiful remnants of what had been the II Imperial Cavalry staggered out of the fight, some running, others simply throwing aside their rifles and raising their hands.

Kasu stopped turning as the rest of the fire died away. "Goddamn," he said, half in wonder and half in a strange sort of pity for the Imperials. "We actually broke 'em."

"Damn straight we broke 'em," Gatz said happily. "Now we'll pick up the pieces."


	19. Crossing of Ways

_Rusgren Pass - June 4 1836_

First Sergeant Edel Wagner's head whipped up as the sharp crackle of gunfire echoed down the pass. "What the hell?" he muttered to himself.

Wolffe was looking just as puzzled. "Strange, huh Edel? It's supposed to be some odds and ends from the 57th and about a Battalion's worth of Imperials, but it sounds like there's a whole goddamn division on the line." He sniggered to himself. "Maybe the high command's got its thumb up its ass like it normally does and knocked a couple zeroes off the numbers here."

Wolffe's chuckle died abruptly as Edel sent a frigid glare his way. "Very funny sergeant," the senior underofficer said coldly. "Skirmishers forward! We don't know what's around that bend!" he shouted, jogging to the head of the column.

As the pair of sergeants edged forward into the first lines of tents with the skirmishers under their command, they were joined by the other noncommissioned officers from the regiment.

"Hm, this place isn't so cheery," Sergeant Ustinov remarked. "It needs a joke or two to liven it up!"

"The only joke 'round here is you, Theo," Cheslock chuckled, grenade launcher slung lazily across his shoulders.

"Hey, that's uncalled for!" the sergeant said in mock indignation.

"Will both you clowns shut up?" Edel hissed. "We could-" He trailed off abruptly as the firing ahead ceased. "Damn! Come on!" he called, starting to run through the depot. "Let's see what's going-" The sergeant stopped again as they emerged from the line of tents and spotted the earthworks and what lay beyond them.

Wolffe gulped, paling as he took in the full extent of the devastation. "Oh my god..."

Ustinov nodded in agreement. "Even I don't think that's funny," he said faintly.

The Darcsens behind the revetments whirled at the sound of the voices but relaxed on seeing the Gallian uniforms. "Mighty good to see you!" a blond-haired officer shouted, hauling himself bodily out of a trench. "Could have used you an hour earlier, but no matter. You're here, and that's what's important," he laughed jovially. "I'm Major Harold Weber, at your service."

"Lieutenant Colonel Giuseppe Landzaat," Edel's commander said, having ridden up to the front. "If you don't mind me asking Major, just what happened here?"

"Well, that's the thing sir. Corporal Gatz here, he came up with these here guns, and they licked the Imperials damn near by themselves," the Major said, gesturing at a nearby Darcsen corporal.

"Is that so? Well, I congratulate you sir," Landzaat said. Turning in his saddle, he addressed Edel. "Sergeant, take some men with you and collect all the wounded, and bring in any prisoners you might find too. These boys have done enough," he said, his wave encompassing the Darcsens emerging from their works.

"Sir." Edel tore off a salute and gathered up his men as the officer turned back to Weber.

"So tell me Harold..."

* * *

Gunther awoke to a world of pain, the ache behind his eyes almost drowning out the sharp burn on his thigh. He groaned, rolling over onto his back, listening to the other moans around him. Damn that Zeichmeister and his attack-happy ways. Damn those Darcsens and their guns. He was distracted by the sound of voices growing closer.

His eyes closed to mere slits, the Imperial officer watched the Gallian trio come closer, turning bodies over with their rifles and probing for survivors.

Well, they wouldn't have another captive to gloat over. Gunther's fist tightened on the hilt of his saber, anticipating his final rush. The senior sergeant in the middle would be his first target, if they didn't get him first.

As the three approached, he tried to scramble up, only to realize his legs didn't want to hold him. His world spun as the ache on the back of his head redoubled in intensity.

"Drop the sword!" the First Sergeant barked in good Imperial. "Surrender and you will not be harmed!"

"Never!" he shouted, bringing the sword back for a clumsy swing. The sergeant rushed him, holding his sword arm back as the other two attempted to pry the saber from his grip. He brought his off hand forward to shove the other man away, only to have his fingers encounter an oddly yielding surface.

"What?" he said in puzzlement as the woman viciously punched him between the eyes, toppling him back into darkness.

Adelle Wagner stared dangerously down at the Imperial officer stretched at her feet.

"Wow Edel," Wolffe laughed, idly twirling the man's saber. "Did you know him from before the war or something?"

Adelle looked up with a guilty start. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

Cheslock cocked a quizzical eyebrow as he checked the unconscious figure's pulse. "There was no need to knock him out you know," he said, lifting the limp Imperial by the armpits. "This guy's got a bruise on the back of his head the size of a dinner plate. We could've just dragged him back awake."

The First Sergeant dismissed the idea. "Nope, now we can just get Turner to drag him back on a board or something." She waved, already turning to the rest of the field. "Come on, let's go find another one."

Wolffe followed slowly, shaking his head. "You really are the scariest guy I've ever met…"

* * *

**Author's note: **Thanks to Markal for the beta.


	20. Face of Defeat

_Rusgren Pass - June 6 1836_

"Tell anybody, and I will kill you."

"What?" Gunther groggily asked, trying to remember who he was talking to... or where he was, for that matter. He was in some sort of medical tent, that was clear, but something seemed out place somehow.

"Pay attention," the sergeant sitting by his cot said sharply, spooning up some soup from a bowl and extending it towards him.

Realization struck him like an artillery shell. "You're that woma-" His revelation was cut off by a howl of pain as she poured the contents of the spoon on his forehead.

"Like I said, tell anyone and you're dead."

Gunther was taken aback. A woman in the military? And a rather fierce sergeant at that.

"Prisoner refusing to eat, sarge?" A grenadier asked, poking his head into the tent. When the Imperial officer gave him a puzzled look, he paused for a moment and repeated himself in Imperial. "You, not like food?"

"No, I just-" Gunther howled as the sergeant "spilled" the scalding contents of the bowl into his lap.

"...I'll leave you two alone, then." The other man made a quick exit as he shot the sergeant a questioning glance. The two sat silently for a minute before Gunther coughed and piped up cautiously.

"Do you all speak our language?"

"Imperial? Many of us had to learn while serving His Imperial Majesty."

As the sergeant spoke, Ehren's brow creased slightly. She was using High Imperial, a rather antiquated and courtly dialect mainly used in the capital by the better-educated. Her speech made her sound like an Imperial courtier or judge, not like a sergeant in a backwater country's army and a woman to boot.

He shook his head to dispel the illusion and instantly wished he hadn't. The pain at the back of his skull still hadn't fully receded. The Imperial officer groaned and cradled his head, trying to block out the throbbing ache behind his eyes.

The sergeant reached out with a hand, her hand cool on his forehead before she retreated, biting her lip. "Did I punch you that hard?"

"_Ja_," Ehren said, tenderly poking at the bruise on his scalp. "But this one is worse." Mostly to distract himself, Ehren raised his head. "Where did you learn to speak Imperial like that?" he asked.

The first sergeant hesitated before answering. "My parents were from the Empire," she said finally. "My father was the Governor-General's secretary."

They made small talk for some time before she stood up almost regretfully. "I had better be going. I have other duties to attend to."

"Wait." Gunther trailed off.

"Hm?"

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Adelle Wagner." The sergeant paused in the doorway. "That's First Sergeant Edel Wagner to you though," she said with a grin.

* * *

Javier Franz sat brooding in his tent, wondering what had become of the newly-minted Lieutenant Colonel Gunther and his command. The last courier had come on the second, reporting that the Imperial column had spotted some Gallian forces in the pass, but that they expected little resistance.

"Not like the boy to go for so long without sending me a report..." the colonel muttered under his breath. Gunther had taken about ten percent of his cavalry, leaving Franz with only about nine thousand troopers. Franz snorted humorlessly. Due to the unique organization of the I Corps, he was probably the only colonel in the entire Imperial Army that could think in terms of "only" nine thousand troopers.

The I Corps, cream of the Imperial Army, consisted of the I, II, III, and IV Brigades and also served as the Imperial Guard for the Emperor's palace. It also was the only corps in the Army that had multiple branches, allowing the Imperial Guards to operate as an independent group, outside the Imperial Army's main command structure.

I Brigade was without a doubt the primary arm of the corps, with over twenty thousand infantrymen. II Brigade served as the household cavalry, while III and IV Brigades supported their activities as the artillery and engineering sections of the corps.

Franz sighed heavily. For all that the corps was supposed to be able to operate independently, General Gregor remained the commander of the I Corps and was the very antithesis of independent action. The cavalry colonel's reverie was rudely interrupted as Dieter Furst, his other protégé, burst into the tent panting.

"What's happened?" Franz demanded sharply.

"Sir...I think...something's happened to...Ehren!" the captain said between gasps.

"What?" The colonel stood up quickly. "I want to see the messenger, _Hauptmann_."

A pair of guards led an almost fainting staff sergeant into the tent and deposited him into a chair.

"What's happened?" Javier asked urgently.

"They murdered us sir!" the sergeant said wildly. "Never seen anything like it. We didn't have a chance." He buried his face in his hands. "Two thousand of our best soldiers, and we didn't stand a chance!"

"What?" Franz strode over and shook the distraught trooper. "Has Gunther disengaged? What is your current position?"

The _Feldwebel _was already shaking his head. "_Oberstleutnant _Gunther is down sir. I saw him fall during the last charge."

The colonel restrained a gasp as he exchanged a stricken look with Dieter. "I asked you what your current position is, _Feldwebel_."

The cavalryman looked up despairingly. "_Oberst _Franz. There is no position. There aren't even men enough to make a squad in the saddle."

The officer rocked back on his heels, stunned by this latest tragedy. "What? What was the Gallian strength? In his last dispatch, I was informed that there would be no difficulties."

"There weren't supposed to be!" the trooper wailed. "We were more than four to their one!"

Franz stood decisively. "_Hauptmann _Furst, I am taking the rest of the II Cavalry down to Rusgren Pass to see exactly what has happened and to achieve a breakthrough, if possible. Inform General Gregor to that effect."

The captain saluted hesitantly. "General Gregor may-"

Javier cut him off. "Inform him after we depart. Make sure any orders recalling us don't get to me either."

Furst saluted again, this time more enthusiastically. "Sir!"

The colonel strode out of the tent, beckoning the prostrate sergeant after him. "Come along Feldwebel. I need to know some things about how five hundred infantry could annihilate our cavalry like that."

* * *

Kasu set down a heavy wooden crate with a grunt as he entered the medical tent. "Here's the supplies you needed, Private Turner."

"Ahh. Alright, thanks." The sergeant chuckled as Turner tried to pry the lid off the crate, and ducked under the tent flap, noting the slowed activity. Considering the heat, he decided it wouldn't be a bad idea to take a break himself. Kasu stepped outside, making a beeline for a shaded awning pitched over one of the guns.

As expected, Gatz was already there, stripping the mechanism and looking over its internal workings. Less expected however, was a private from the recently-arrived 147th, leaning against a revetment and watching the proceedings with interest.

"Oh, hey!" Gatz said cheerfully, looking up from the gun. "This is Private Lee. He's been asking a few questions."

"Chester Lee, one-fohty-seventh. I reckoned I'd come see what y'all were doin' with this here fancy new gun that gone and kilt so damn many of them big-britched Imps."

Kasu blinked slowly, attempting to decipher the man's curious way of speaking. "The repeater?"

"Yep," the man said coolly. "You git 'em from Randgriz?"

"No, actually," the sergeant said grinning. "Gatz here cobbled a few of them together after our scouts saw the Imps coming. Of course, it took a lot of pla-"

"You what? Nothin' personal, but y'all really built those there guns?" the man said, startled.

Gatz looked slightly offended, despite having encountered such sentiments before. "We're not stupid just because we have dark hair, you know."

The private scuffed a boot into the dirt awkwardly. "Didn't say-" He paused and considered for a moment. "Well. Guess I did. Say, if you came up with them guns, how do they work?" the man said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Well, the idea was pretty simple; you have the rifle barrels rotating around a central axis with the cartridge feed on top, with an extractor for each barrel. There's a spur gear attached to the axis, with a-"

"All right, you know what you're talkin' about sure enough," the man said almost deferentially. "I always thought you dark-hairs were all yaller, but I s'pose I was wrong." He extended his hand with considerably more warmth than he had shown throughout the rest of the conversation. "I'm Chester Lee. Ya'll can call me Chester tho'."

Before long, Kasu was engrossed in a heated debate with the former cavalryman over the merits of a certain breech-loading cavalry carbine. He almost didn't notice Major Weber walk over to investigate the conversation.

"Well, well, well!" the major exclaimed jovially. "Getting along well, are we?"

Chester affected to be offended. "Me, friends with these two smart-asses?"

Kasu was about to respond when he noticed the man's huge wink.

"We don't like that idiot either!" Gatz cut in. The three glared at each other before breaking out into wild laughter.

* * *

**Author Note: **Thanks to Markal for the beta.


End file.
